THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Castle  of  Twilight 


THE  CAS'  LE 


OF  TW1LIGH 


By   MARGARET 
HORTON  POTTER 


With 

by  Ch.  Weber 


CHICAGO 
A.C.McCLURG 
7903 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  C.  MCCLURG  fif  Co. 
1903 

Published  September  a6,  1903 


DESIGNED,  ARRANGED,  AND   PRINTED 
BY      THK      UNIVERSITY      PRESS 


TO 

G.  M.  McB. 

WHOSE    MUSIC    SUGGESTED    THE    STORY 

This  little  volume  is  faithfully 
inscribed 


933861 


[ftp 


Nocturne  —  Grieg:   Opus  54,  No.  4. 


CONTEN  TS 


PAGE 

vii 


29 
62 


CHAPTER 

I.  THE  DESOLATION  OF  AGE  .     . 

II.  THE  SILENCE  OF  YOUTH     .     . 

III.  FLAMMECCEUR 

IV.  THE  PASSION 94 

V.  SHADOWS 121 

VI.  A  LOVE-STRAIN 154 

VII.  THE  LOST  LENORE 177 

VIII.  To  A  TRUMPET-CALL    ....  209 

IX.  THE  STORM 235 

X.  FROM  RENNES 260 

XL  THE  WANDERER 286 

XII.  LAURE 316 

XIII.  LENORE 347 

XIV.  ELEANORE 378 

XV.  THE  RISING  TIDE 401 

XVI.  THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  VALLEY      .  423 


LLUSTRATIONS 


Lenore  .  .     Frontispiece 


The  whole  Castle  had  assembled  to  say  God 
speed  to  their  departing  lord 90 

Only  one   among    them    seemed   not   of  their 

mood 1 80 

"  Gerault  —  Gerault  —  my    lord  !  "    she  whis 
pered        276 

Mother  and  child  were  happy  to  sit  all  day  in 

the  flower-strewn  meadow 336 

Hand    in   hand,  by   the    murmurous   sea,  they 

walked 416 


The  decorations  for  title-page,  end-papers,  and  chapter 
initials  are  by  Miss  Mabel  Harloiu 


FOREWORD 

TTTT'ISTFULLY  I  deliver  up  to  you  my 
r r  simple  story,  knowing  that  the  first  sug 
gestion  of  "historical  novel"  will  bring  before 
you  an  image  of  dreary  woodenness  and  unceasing 
carnage.  Tet  if  you  will  have  the  graciousness 
but  to  unlock  my  castle  door  you  will  find  within 
only  two  or  three  quiet  folk  who  will  distress  you 
with  no  battles  nor  strange  oaths.  Even  in  the 
days  of  rival  Princes  and  never-ending  wars  there 
dwelt  still  a  few  who  took  no  part  in  the  moil  of 
life,  but  lived  with  gentle  pleasures  and  unvoiced 
sorrows,  somewhat  as  you  and  I ;  wherefore,  I 
pray  you,  cross  the  moat.  The  drawbridge  is 
down  for  you,  and  will  not  be  raised,  if,  after 
introduction  to  the  Chatelaine,  you  desire  speedily 

to  retreat. 

M.  H.  P. 


The  CASTLE  of  TWILIGHT 


CHAPTER    ONE 

THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 


T  was  mid-April  :  a  sunny 
afternoon.  A  flood  of  golden 
light,  borne  on  gusts  of  sweet, 
chilly  air,  poured  through  the 
open  windows  of  the  Castle 
into  a  high-vaulted,  massively 
furnished  bedroom,  hung  with  tapestries,  and 
strewn  with  dry  rushes.  A  heavy  silence  that 
was  less  a  thing  of  the  moment  than  a  part  of 
the  general  atmosphere  hovered  about  the  room ; 
and  it  was  riot  lessened  by  the  unceasing  mur 
mur  of  ocean  waves  breaking  upon  the  face 
of  the  cliff  on  which  the  Castle  stood.  This 
sound  held  in  it  a  note  of  unutterable  melan 
choly.  Indeed,  despite  the  sunlight,  the  spar 
kle  of  the  waves,  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
fresh  spring  air,  this  whole  building,  the  cul 
minating  point  of  a  long  slope  of  landscape, 
'  HI  [1] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

seemed  wrapped  in  an  atmosphere  of  loneli 
ness,  of  sadness,  of  lifelessness,  that  found  full 
expression  in  the  attitude  of'  the  black-robed 
woman  who  knelt  alone  in  the  high-vaulted 
bedroom. 

Eleanore  was  kneeling  at  her  priedieu.  Ma 
dame  Eleanore  knelt  at  her  priedieu,  and  did 
not  pray.  Nay,  the  great  grief,  the  unvoiced 
bitterness  in  her  heart,  killed  prayer.  For, 
henceforth,  there  was  one  near  and  unbearably 
dear  to  her  who  must  be  praying  for  evermore. 
And  it  was  this  thought  and  the  vista  of  her 
future  lonely  years  that  denied  her,  even  as 
she  knelt,  the  consolation  of  religion. 

To  the  still  solitude  of  her  bedchamber,  and 
always  to  the  foot  of  her  crucifix,  the  chate 
laine  of  Le  Crepuscule  was  accustomed  to  bring 
her  griefs ;  and  there  had  been  many  griefs 
and  some  very  bitter  ones  in  the  thirty-four 
years  that  she  had  reigned  as  mistress  over 
the  Castle.  But  this  last  was  one  that,  trained 
though  she  was  in  the  ways  of  sorrow,  defied 
all  comfort,  denied  the  right  of  consolation, 
and  forbade  even  the  relief  of  an  appeal  to 
the  All-merciful.  Laure,  her  daughter,  the 
star  of  her  solitude,  the  youth  and  the  joy 
[2]  ' 


THE  DESOLATION   OF  AGE 

of  her  life,  the  object  of  all  the  blind  devo 
tion  of  which  her  mother-soul  was  capable, 
had  this  morning  entered  upon  her  novitiate 
at  the  convent  of  the  Virgins  of  the  Magdalen. 
Although  Madame  Eleanore's  family  was  cele 
brated  for  its  piety,  though  many  a  generation 
of  Lavals  and  Crepuscules  had  rendered  a 
daughter  to  the  eternal  worship  of  God,  there 
were  still  no  records  left  in  either  family  of  a 
great  mother-grief  when  the  daughter  left  her 
home.  But  madame,  Laval  as  she  was,  Cre- 
puscule  as  she  had  learned  to  be,  could  not 
find  it  in  her  heart  to  praise  God  for  the  loss 
of  her  child. 

Once  again,  after  many  years,  years  that  she 
could  look  back  upon  now  as  filled  with  broad 
content,  she  was  alone.  Not  since,  many, 
many  years  ago,  she  had  come  to  the  Castle 
as  a  girl-bride,  wife  of  a  military  lord,  had  such 
utter  desolation  held  her  in  its  bonds,  —  such 
desolation  as,  after  the  coming  of  her  two 
children,  she  had  thought  never  to  feel  again. 
In  the  days  after  the  Seigneur's  first  early  de 
parture  for  Rennes,  without  her,  she  had  felt 
as  now.  It  came  back  very  vividly  to  her 
memory,  how  he  had  ridden  away  for  the 
[3] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


capital,  the  city  of  war,  of  arms,  of  glittering 
shield  and  piercing  lance,  of  tourney  and  laugh 
ter  and  song ;  how  she  had  longed  in  silence  to 
ride  thither  at  his  side  ;  how  she  had  wept  when 
he  was  really  gone ;  how  she  had  watched  bit 
terly,  day  after  day,  for  his  return  up  the  steep 
road  that  came  out  of  the  forest  on  the  edge  of 
the  sand-downs  below.  Clearly  indeed  did  her 
youth  return  to  Eleanore  as  she  knelt  here,  in 
the  barred  sunlight,  alone  with  her  unheeding 
crucifix.  And  intertwined  with  this  memory 
was  the  new  sense  of  blinding  sorrow,  the  loss 
of  Laure. 

The  reality,  as  it  came  to  her,  seemed  even 
now  vague  and  impossible.  Laure,  her  girl, 
her  strong,  wild,  adventurous,  high-hearted, 
fearless  girl,  to  become  a  nun !  Laure,  of 
whom,  in  her  own  way,  Eleanore  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  as  she  thought  of  the 
great  white  gulls  that  veered,  through  sunlight 
and  storm,  on  straight-stretched  pinions,  along 
the  rocky  coast,  as  a  creature  of  light,  of  air, 
above  all  of  perfect,  indestructible  freedom  ! 
This,  her  Laure,  to  become  a  nun !  Spite  of 
what  the  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire  had  so  earnestly 
told  her,  how,  in  all  strong  natures,  there  are 
[4] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

strong  antitheses  and  quiet,  governing  depths 
that  no  outer  turbulence  can  disclose,  Eleanore 
rebelled  at  the  disposal  that  had  been  made  of 
this  nature.  She  knew  herself  too  well  to  be 
lieve  that  her  daughter  could  renounce  all  the 
joys  of  youth  and  of  life  without  a  single  after- 
pang. 

After  this  early  mother-thought  for  the 
child's  state,  Eleanore's  self-grief  returned 
again  with  redoubled  force ;  and  her  brain  con 
jured  up  a  vision  of  the  future,  —  that  great, 
shadowy  future,  that  wrapped  her  heart  around 
in  a  cold  and  deadening  despair. 

The  April  wind  blew  higher  through  the 
room,  catching  the  tapestry  curtains  of  the 
immense  bed  and  waving  them  about  like  blue 
banners.  The  bars  of  sunlight  mellowed  and 
broadened  over  the  shrunken  rushes  and  the 
smooth  stones  of  the  floor.  The  surf  boomed 
louder  as  the  tide  advanced.  And  Eleanore, 
still  upon  her  knees,  rocked  her  body  in  her 
helpless  rebellion,  and  found  it  in  her  heart  to 
question  the  righteous  wisdom  of  her  God. 
She  did  not,  however,  come  quite  to  this ;  for 
which,  afterwards,  she  found  it  expedient  to 
give  thanks  to  the  same  deity.  Her  solitude 
[5] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

was  unexpectedly  broken.  There  came  a 
knock  upon  the  door,  which  immediately  after 
wards  opened,  and  Gerault,  her  son,  entered 
the  room. 

This  fourth  Seigneur  of  Le  Crepuscule,  a 
dark-browed,  lean,  and  rather  handsome  fellow, 
clad  in  half  armor  and  carrying  on  his  wrist 
a  falcon,  jessed  and  belled,  was  the  first  of 
Eleanore's  two  children.  She  reverenced  him 
as  his  father's  successor ;  she  held  affection  for 
him  because  she  had  borne  him ;  and  she 
respected  him  and  his  wishes  because  he  was 
a  man  that  commanded  respect.  But  perhaps 
it  was  this  very  respect,  which  had  in  it  some 
thing  of  distance,  that  killed  in  her  the  over 
whelming  love  which  she  had  always  felt  for 
his  sister  Laure,  her  youngest  and  beloved. 

Gerault,  seeing  his  mother's  attitude,  stopped 
short  in  the  doorway.  "  Madame,  I  crave  par 
don  !  I  had  not  known  you  were  at  prayer," 
he  said. 

Eleanore  rose  from  her  knees  a  little  hastily. 
"Nay,  Gerault,  I  was  not  at  prayer.  'Tis  an 
old  custom  of  mine  to  meditate  in  that  place. 
Enter  thou  and  sit  with  me  for  a  little." 

Gerault  bowed  silently  and  accepted  her  in- 
[6] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

vitation  by  seating  himself  near  one  of  the 
windows  on  a  wooden  settle.  His  silence 
seemed  to  demand  speech  from  his  mother. 
But  Eleanore,  once  on  her  feet,  had  begun 
slowly  to  pace  the  floor  of  her  room,  at  the 
same  time  losing  herself  again  in  her  own 
thoughts. 

Without  speaking  and  without  any  discom 
fort  at  the  continued  silence,  Gerault  watched 
his  mother  —  contemplated  her,  rather  —  as 
she  walked.  Often  he  had  felt  a  pride — a 
pride  that  suggested  patronage  —  in  that  walk 
of  madame's.  Never,  in  any  woman,  had  he 
seen  such  a  carriage,  such  conscious  poise,  such 
dignity,  such  command.  In  his  heart  her  son, 
somewhat  given  to  irreverent  observation  and 
analysis  of  those  about  him,  had  named  her 
the  "  Quiet-Browed,"  and  the  very  fact  that 
he  could  have  seen  somewhat  below  the  sur 
face  and  yet  named  her  thus,  was  evidence 
enough  of  her  powers  of  self-control.  It 
was  he  who  finally  broke  the  silence  between 
them. 

"Well,  madame,  the  change  in  our  house 
hath  taken  place.  Laure's  new  life  is  safely 
begun ;  and  she  hath  given  what  she  could  to 
[7] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

the  honor  of  our  race.  Now  that  it  is  done, 
I  return  to  Rennes,  to  the  side  of  my  Lord 
Duke." 

Eleanore  made  no  pause  in  her  walk,  nor 
did  she  betray  by  the  slightest  gesture  her  feel 
ing  at  the  announcement.  Too  many  times  be 
fore  had  she  experienced  this  same  sensation. 
After  a  few  seconds  she  asked  quietly  :  "  When 
do  you  go  ?  " 

In  spite  of  her  self-control,  her  voice  had 
been  a  strain  off  the  key,  and  now  Gerault 
looked  at  her  keenly,  asking :  "  There  is  a 
reason  why  I  should  not  ride  to  Rennes  ?  I 
have  not  thy  permission  to  go  ?  " 

Eleanore  paused  in  her  walk  to  turn  and 
look  at  him.  There  was  just  a  suggestion  of 
scorn  in  her  attitude.  "  Reason  !  Permis 
sion  !  Was  ever  a  reason  why  a  Crepuscule 
might  not  fare  forth  to  Rennes,  or  one  that 
asked  permission  of  a  woman  ere  he  went?  " 

Again  Gerault  looked  at  her,  this  time  in 
that  dignified  disapproval  that  man  uses  to 
cover  an  unlooked-for  mortification.  And  the 
Seigneur  was  decidedly  lofty  as  he  said :  "  I 
have  given  thee  pain,  madame,  though  of  how, 
or  wherefore,  I  am  wofully  ignorant." 
[8] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

"  Pain,  Gerault  ?  Pain  ?  "  Eleanore  re 
pressed  herself  again  and  immediately  resumed 
her  walk.  In  a  few  seconds  the  calm,  quiet 
dignity  returned,  her  mask  was  replaced,  every 
vestige  of  her  feeling  hidden,  and  she  had 
become  once  more  the  chatelaine  of  unvoiced 
loneliness.  Then  she  went  on  speaking : 
"  Pain,  Gerault  ?  Surely  not.  Know  I  not 
enough  of  Rennes  that  I  should  not  be  well 
content  to  have  thee  in  that  lordly  place,  with 
thy  rightful  companions,  men  of  thy  blood  ? 
Shall  I  not  send  thee  gayly  forth  again  to  that 
trysting-place  of  knightly  arms  ?  " 

"  And  yet,  madame,  I  did  but  now  surprise 
in  thy  face  a  look  of  sorrow,  of  some  unhappi- 
ness,  that  is  new  to  it." 

"  Well,  even  so  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  It  is  Laure's  departure.  Yet 
that  must  not  be  too  much  mourned.  Laure's 
wild  ways  had  come  to  be  a  source  of  uneasi 
ness  to  both  of  us  at  times.  'T  is  true  that 
there  is  lost  an  alliance  that  might  have  brought 
much  honor  to  Le  Crepuscule.  By  the  favor 
of  my  Lord  Duke,  Laure  might  have  wed 
with  Grantmesnil,  Senlis,  Angers  itself,  per 
haps;  and  there  was  ever  Laval.  —  Yet — " 
[9] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

He  paused  musingly,  not  seeing  the  look 
that  had  come  back  into  the  face  of  madame. 
Only  when  she  stopped  again  and  turned  to 
him  did  he  utter  a  soft  exclamation,  half  sur 
prise  and  half  helpless  apology.  But  Eleanore, 
smiling  at  him  sadly,  began,  in  that  voice  that 
had  long  been  tuned  to  the  stillness  of  the 
Castle  :  "  If  I  could  but  make  thee  understand, 
Gerault !  If  I  could  make  thee  look  upon  my 
hours  of  loneliness  here  —  and  see  —  Gerault, 
it  is  not  a  matter  of  alliance,  or  of  honor,  or 
of  dishonor,  with  Laure.  It  is  that  she  was  my 
child,  my  daughter,  my  companion  —  how 
adored!  —  here,  in  this — this  great  Castle  of 
Twilight.  Neither  thou  nor  any  man  can 
know  what  our  lives  are.  —  But  think,  Gerault 
—  think  of  me  and  of  the  Castle  after  thou  art 
gone.  What  is  there  for  me  here  ?  The 
tasks  that  I  invent  to  fill  the  hours  are  useless 
to  deaden  thought.  They  are  not  changed 
from  the  occupations  of  thirty  years  ago. 
Nor,  methinks,  have  women  known  aught  else 
than  spinning,  weaving,  sewing,  spinning  again, 
since  the  days  of  the  earliest  kings, —  the  Kings 
of  Jerusalem.  —  And  day  after  day  through  the 
long  years  I  dwell  here  in  this  barren  spot  — 
[10] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

dependent  on  others  for  what  happiness  I  am 
to  get  in  my  life.  And  now — now  the 
Church,  in  which  always  my  hope  of  another, 
better  life  hath  lain,  taketh  my  child  from  me. 
Let  then  the  Church  give  me  something  in 
place  of  her !  Let  the  Church  pay  back 
something  of  its  debt.  And  thou  also,  my 
son,  —  give  me  some  help  to  live  through  the 
unending  days  of  thy  absence  in  Rennes." 

"I,  madame  !  —  the  Church!  —  What  art 
thou  saying  ?  " 

"  Hast  thou  not  heard  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard.  But  what  shall  I  do,  my 
mother  ?  " 

"  Listen,  Gerault.  The  Church  hath  taken 
a  daughter  from  me.  Thou,  by  the  aid  of 
the  Church,  canst  give  me  another.  Gerault, 
thou  must  marry.  Marry,  my  son.  Bring 
thy  wife  home  to  me  !  " 

Gerault  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  expression 
on  his  face  that  his  mother  had  never  before 
called  there.  For  a  moment  he  looked  at  her, 
his  eyes  saying  what  his  lips  would  not.  Then, 
gradually,  the  fire  in  his  face  died  down,  and  he 
reseated  himself  slowly  on  the  settle,  while  the 
bird  on  his  wrist,  a  wild  bagard,  fluttered  its 
[  11  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

wings,  and  dug  its  talons  painfully  into  the 
knight's  flesh. 

"  Marry ! "  said  Gerault,  at  length,  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  strange  to  his  own  ears. 
"  Marry  !  Hast  thou  forgotten  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  have  not  forgotten ;  nor  has  any 
one  in  the  Castle.  But  thou,  Gerault,  must 
forget.  It  is  now  five  years  since,  and  thou 
art  more  than  come  to  man's  estate.  Even 
then  thou  wast  not  young.  —  Nay,  Gerault,  I 
do  not  forget  that  cruel  thing.  Yet  we  must 
all  go.  —  And  ere  I  die  I  must  see  thee  wed. 
'T  is  not  only  for  myself,  child.  It  is  for  the 
house,  and  the  line  of  Crepuscule.  Shall  it  be 
lost  in  four  generations  ?  " 

Frowning,  Gerault  rose.  "  Well,  madame, 
not  as  yet  have  I  seen  in  Brittany  the  maid 
that  I  would  wed,  barring  always  — "  He 
shook  himself  to  dissipate  the  memory  that 
was  on  him.  "  To-morrow  I  and  Courtoise 
ride  forth  to  Rennes.  Let  me  now  leave  thee 
once  more  to  thy  meditations." 

Gerault  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  turned 

to  look  once  at  his  mother,  whose  face  he  could 

not  see,  and  then,  with  an  audible  sigh,  went 

quietly  away.     Each  was  ignorant  of  the  other's 

[12] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

feelings.  As  Eleanore  moved  over  toward  the 
open  windows  that  looked  off  upon  the  sea, 
her  eyes,  tear-blinded,  saw  nothing  of  the  broad 
plain  of  blue  and  sparkling  gold  that  stretched 
infinitely  away  before  her.  Nor  did  she  dream 
of  the  spirit  of  reawakened  bitterness  and  des 
olation  that  her  words  had  conjured  up  in 
Gerault's  heart.  But  the  Seigneur's  calm  and 
unruffled  expression  concealed  a  very  storm  of 
reawakened  misery  as  he  descended  the  great 
stone  staircase  of  the  Castle,  passed  through 
the  empty  lower  hall,  and  so  out  into  the 
courtyard. 

This  courtyard  was  always  the  liveliest  spot 
about  the  chateau.  Le  Crepuscule  itself  was 
very  large,  and  its  adjacent  buildings  were  on  a 
corresponding  scale.  Like  all  the  feudal  for 
tress-castles  of  its  time,  it  was  almost  a  little 
city  in  itself.  It  dated  from  the  year  1203, 
and  had  been  built  by  the  first  lord  of  the 
name,  Bernard,  a  left-handed  scion  of  Coucy, 
who  had  been  called  Crepuscule  from  his  colors, 
two  contrasting  shades  of  gray.  Since  his  time, 
each  of  its  lords  had  added  to  its  strength  or 
its  convenience,  till  now,  in  the  year  1380,  it 
was  the  strongest  chateau  on  the  South  Breton 
[13] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

coast.  One  side  was  built  on  the  very  edge  of 
an  immense  cliff  against  which  the  Atlantic 
surf  had  beaten  unceasingly  through  the  ages. 
The  other  three  sides  were  well  protected,  first 
by  a  heavy  wall  that  surrounded  the  whole 
courtyard  with  its  various  buildings,  beyond 
which  came  a  broad  strip  of  garden  land  and 
pasturage,  bounded  on  the  far  side  by  the  sec 
ond,  or  lower  wall,  and  a  dry  moat.  The  keep 
was  of  a  size  proportionate  to  the  Castle  ;  and 
the  number  of  men-at-arms  that  were  kept  in 
it  taxed  the  coffers  of  the  rather  meagre  estate 
to  the  utmost  for  food  and  pay. 

When  Gerault  entered  the  courtyard  a  girl 
stood  drawing  water  from  the  round,  stone 
well.  Two  or  three  henchmen  lolled  in  the 
doorway  of  the  keep,  chaffing  a  peasant  who 
had  come  up  the  hill  from  one  of  the  manor 
farms  carrying  eggs  in  a  big  basket.  Just  out 
side  the  stables,  which  occupied  the  whole  east 
side  of  the  courtyard,  a  boy  stood  rubbing 
down  a  sleek,  white  palfrey.  All  of  these 
people  respectfully  saluted  their  lord,  who  re 
turned  them  rather  a  curt  recognition  as  he 
passed  round  the  west  tower  on  his  way  to  a 
little  narrow  building  just  in  front  of  the  north 
[14] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

gate,  in  which  his  falcons  were  housed  through 
the  winter.  Gerault  had  a  great  passion  for 
hawking,  and  his  birds  were  always  objects 
of  solicitude  with  him.  He  and  Courtoise, 
his  squire,  were  accustomed  to  spend  much 
time  together  in  this  little  building,  and  in  the 
open-air  falconry  on  the  terrace  outside  the 
north  gate,  where  young  birds  or  newly  cap 
tured  ones  were  trained. 

Just  now  Gerault  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
the  falcon-house,  looking  around  him  for 
Courtoise,  whom  he  had  thought  to  find 
within.  He  was  speaking  to  the  bird  on  his 
wrist,  his  mind  still  occupied  with  the  recent 
talk  with  his  mother,  when,  through  the  gate, 
came  a  burst  of  laughter  and  song,  and  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  see  a  giddy  company  sway 
ing  toward  him  in  the  measure  of  a  "  carole  "  l 
led  by  Courtoise  and  Laure's  foster-sister, 
Alixe  la  Rieuse.  Moving  a  little  out  of  their 
way  he  stood  and  watched  the  group  go  by,  — 
the  demoiselles  and  the  squires  of  the  Castle 
household,  retained  by  his  mother  as  company 
for  herself,  also  to  be  trained  in  etiquette 

1  A  "carole"  was  originally  a  dance  to  which  the  dancers 
sang  their  own  accompaniment. 

[15] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

according  to  their  several  stations.  And  a 
pretty  enough  company  of  youth  and  gayety 
they  were :  Berthe,  Yseult,  Isabelle,  Viviane, 
daughters  all  of  noble  houses  ;  with  Roland  of 
St.  Bertaux,  Louis  of  Florence,  Robert  Meloc, 
and  Guy  d'Armenonville,  called  "  le  Trouve." 
But,  of  them  all,  Alixe,  surnamed  the  Laugh 
ing  One,  was  the  brightest  of  eye,  the  warmest 
of  color,  and  the  lightest  of  foot. 

As  they  went  by,  Gerault  signalled  to  his 
squire,  Courtoise,  and  the  young  fellow  would 
have  disengaged  himself  immediately  from  his 
companions,  but  that  Alixe  suddenly  broke 
her  step,  dropped  the  hand  of  Robert  Meloc, 
who  was  behind  her,  and  leaving  the  com 
pany,  ran  to  Gerault's  side,  dragging  Cour 
toise  with  her.  The  dance  ceased  while  the 
young  people  stood  still,  staring  at  their  erst 
while  leaders.  Alixe,  however,  impatiently 
motioned  them  on. 

"  Go  back  to  the  Castle  with  your  f  Roi 
qui  ne  ment  pas.' 2  I  will  come  soon." 

Obedient  to  her  command,  the  little  com 
pany  resumed  their  quaint  song,  and,  with 
steps  that  lagged  a  little,  passed  into  the 

1  An  old-time  game. 

[16] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

Castle,  leaving  their  arbitrary  leader  behind 
them,  with  the  Seigneur  and  his  squire. 

Gerault  was  silent  till  the  young  people 
had  gone.  Then  he  turned  to  Alixe,  but, 
before  he  had  time  to  speak,  she  broke  in 
hastily : 

"  Let  me  go  with  you  to  the  falcons.  You 
must  see  Bec-Hardi  sit  upon  my  wrist,  and 
attack  his  pat  on  the  rope." 

"  Diable  !  —  Bee  Hardi  !  —  Thou  hast  a 
genius  with  the  birds,  Alixe.  The  hagard  will 
not  move  for  me."  Gerault  was  all  attention 
to  her  now. 

Alixe  did  not  answer  his  praise,  but  started 
quickly  forward  toward  the  gate  through  which 
she  had  just  come,  beyond  which  was  the  strip 
of  turf  where  the  falcons  lived  in  summer. 
Gerault  and  Courtoise  followed  her  at  a 
slower  pace,  and  she  caught  some  disjointed 
words  spoken  by  the  Seigneur  behind  her : 
—  "  Rennes  "  —  "  to-morrow  "  —  "  horses." 

As  these  came  to  her  ears,  Alixe's  steps 
grew  laggard,  for  she  had  put  the  thoughts 
together,  and  instantly  her  mood  changed 
from  golden  irresponsibility  to  dull  and 
dreary  melancholy.  For  a  long  time  she  had 
m  [  17  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

concealed  in  her  heart  the  deep  sorrow  that 
she  felt  at  the  prospective  loss  of  her  life- 
playmate,  Laure,  now  actually  gone,  and  gone 
forever.  She  had  resigned  herself  to  the 
thought  of  solitary  adventures  on  moor  and 
cliff,  and  lonely  sails  on  the  breezy,  treacher 
ous  bay,  in  a  more  than  treacherous  boat,  — 
such  wild  and  risky  amusements  as  she  and 
the  daughter  of  Le  Crepuscule  had  loved  to 
indulge  together.  Laure  was  gone,  and  she 
had  kept  herself  from  tears.  But  now  —  now, 
at  these  words  of  Gerault's,  there  suddenly 
rose  before  her  a  vivid  picture  of  life  in  the 
Castle  without  either  brother  or  sister.  To 
ward  Gerault  she  had  no  such  feeling  as  that 
which  she  had  held  for  Laure.  He  was  a  man 
to  her,  and  the  fact  made  a  vast  difference. 
At  times  she  entertained  for  him  a  violent 
enthusiasm  ;  at  other  times  she  treated  him 
with  infinite  scorn.  But  till  now  she  had 
never  confessed,  even  to  herself,  how  much 
interest  he  had  added  to  the  monotonous 
Castle  life.  Considering  her  wayward  nature, 
it  was  certainly  anomalous  that,  in  her  first 
rush  of  displeasure,  there  came  to  her  the 
thought  of  Eleanore,  the  mother  now  doubly 
[18] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

bereft.     And  for  madame  she  felt  a  sympathy 
that  was  entirely  new. 

Gerault  and  his  squire  reached  the  outdoor 
falconry  before  Alixe,  whom  they  perceived  to 
have  fallen  into  one  of  her  sudden  reveries. 
Accustomed  to  her  rapid  changes  of  mood, 
neither  man  took  much  heed  of  her  slow 
steps  and  bent  head.  And  when  she  reached 
the  falconry  and  saw  the  birds,  her  interest  in 
them  brought  over  her  again  a  wave  of  ani 
mation. 

The  outdoor  falconry  was  a  long  strip  of 
turf  that  lay  between  the  flower-terrace  and  the 
kitchen-garden.  Into  this  turf  had  been  driven 
about  twenty  heavy  stakes,  to  which  were  nailed 
wooden  cross-pieces.  On  nearly  every  one  of 
these  a  falcon  perched,  and  a  strong  cord,  tied 
about  one  leg,  fastened  each  to  his  own  stake. 
At  sight  of  their  master,  whom  they  knew  per 
fectly  well,  all  the  birds  set  up  a  peculiar,  harsh 
cry,  at  the  same  time  eagerly  flapping  their 
wings,  appealing,  as  best  they  could,  for  an 
hour  or  two  of  freedom.  Alixe  ran  at  once 
down  to  the  end  of  the  second  row  of  stakes, 
where  sat  a  half-grown  bird,  striking  viciously 
at  his  perch  with  his  iron  beak. 
[19] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


Courtoise  and  Gerault  ceased  their  conver 
sation  when  Alixe  went  up  to  this  bird  and 
addressed  it  in  a  curious  jargon  of  Latin  and 
Breton-French.  Courtoise  betrayed  an  ad 
miring  interest  when  she  stooped  to  lay  her 
hand  on  the  bird's  feathers ;  and  Gerault 
called  involuntarily, — 

"  Have  a  care,  Alixe  !  " 

The  girl,  however,  had  her  way  with  the 
creature.  At  sound  of  her  voice  it  became 
attentive.  At  the  touch  of  her  hand  it  half 
raised  its  wings,  the  motion  indicating  ex 
pectant  delight.  In  a  moment  more  it  had 
hopped  upon  the  girl's  wrist,  and  sat  there, 
swaying  and  preening  contentedly. 

"Sang  Dieu,  Alixe,  thou  hast  done  that  well  ! 
Thou  sayest  he  will  also  attack  the  pat  from 
your  hand  ?  " 

Alixe  merely  nodded.  To  all  appearances, 
she  was  wholly  engrossed  with  the  bird,  which 
she  continued  to  handle.  Gerault  and  Cour 
toise  had  come  close  to  her  side,  though  the 
falcon  betrayed  its  displeasure  at  their  ap 
proach.  All  three  of  them  had  been  silent 
for  some  seconds,  when  Alixe  turned  her 
green  eyes  upon  the  Seigneur,  and,  looking 
[20] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

at  him  with  a  glance  that  carried  discomfort 
with  it,  said  in  a  very  precise  and  cutting 
tone : 

"  So  you  leave  Le  Crepuscule  to-morrow, 
Gerault  ?  And  for  how  long  ?  " 

"  That  I  cannot  tell,"  answered  Gerault,  ex 
hibiting  no  annoyance.  "  For  as  long  a  time 
as  Duke  Jean  will  accept  my  services." 

"  Ah !  then  there  will  be  righting.  I  had 
not  heard  of  a  war.  Tell  me  of  it." 

Gerault  became  suddenly  embarrassed  and 
correspondingly  displeased.  "  Of  what  import 
can  it  be  to  you,  a  woman,  whether  there  is 
war  or  peace?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  there  is  great  import." 

"  Prithee,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 

"  This  :  that  an  there  were  indeed  a  war 
thou  mightest  be  forgiven  thy  great  selfishness 
in  going  forth  to  pleasure,  leaving  thy  mother 
here  in  her  loneliness  and  sorrow  ;  whereas  —  " 

"  Silence,  Alixe !  Thine  insolence  merits 
the  whip,"  cried  Courtoise. 

"  Peace,  boy  !  "   said   Gerault,  shortly,  and 

forthwith    turned    again     to     the    demoiselle. 

"And  is  not  my  mother  long  accustomed  to 

this  life,  and  well  content  with  it  ?     Is  she  not 

[21] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

sss=s:ssss=s:sss=s:sx=s::s=ss£=fis^3s:s:s:^:s:ssss;s^s 

lady  of  a  great  castle,  mistress  of  enviable 
estates?  Hath  she  not  a  position  to  be 
proud  of?  From  her  speech  and  thine  one 
might  think  — "  he  snapped  his  fingers  im 
patiently. —  "Come  you  with  me,  Alixe. 
Let  us  walk  here  together  on  the  turf,  while 
I  say  to  you  certain  things.  Thou,  Courtoise, 
return  to  the  Castle  if  thou  wilt." 

The  squire,  however,  chose  to  remain  in  the 
field,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  watch 
ing  the  falcons  at  his  feet,  and  whistling  under 
his  breath  for  his  own  amusement.  Alixe  re 
placed  Bec-Hardi,  screaming  angrily  and  flap 
ping  its  wings,  and  moved  off  beside  Gerault, 
her  long  red  houppelande  and  mantle  trailing 
upon  the  grass  round  her  feet,  the  veil  from 
her  filet  flowing  behind  her  nearly  to  the 
ground.  Long  time  these  two,  Lord  of  Le 
Crepuscule  and  his  almost  sister,  walked 
together  in  the  sunny  light  of  the  late  after 
noon.  And  long  Courtoise  the  squire  watched 
them  as  they  went.  Although  Gerault  had 
said,  somewhat  in  ire,  that  he  had  a  matter  to 
speak  of  with  her,  it  was  Alixe  that  talked  the 
most,  and  from  his  manner  it  could  be  seen 
that  Gerault  was  fallen  very  much  under  the 
[22] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

influence  of  her  peculiar  insistence.  What  it 
was  they  spoke  of,  Courtoise  could  only  guess 
—  and  fear.  For,  though  he  might  hold  in 
his  heart  some  sympathy  with  madame  in 
her  loneliness,  yet  the  squire  was  a  man,  and 
young ;  and  his  young  thoughts  drew  with 
delight  the  picture  of  Rennes'  gayeties  in  the 
summer-time,  when  no  war  was  toward  and  the 
court  alive  with  merriment.  Indeed,  it  was  not 
very  wonderful  that  he  prayed  to  be  off  on  the 
morrow  ;  but  the  occasional  glimpse  that  he 
got  of  his  lord's  face  carried  doubt  into  his 
heart. 

As  the  squire  stood  there  by  the  wall,  mus 
ing,  Madame  Eleanore  herself  came  out  of  the 
courtyard  into  the  field.  Her  rosary  hung 
from  her  waist,  and  in  her  hand  was  a  little 
volume  of  Latin  prayers.  In  some  way,  of 
which  she  was  probably  unconscious,  the  placid 
manner  of  her  as  she  came  into  the  field  for  her 
evening  walk  caused  Courtoise's  idle  dreams 
of  gayety  to  vanish  away,  and  the  present,  so 
tinged  with  the  spirit  of  sweet  melancholy,  to 
become  the  only  reality.  The  squire  at  once 
advanced  toward  his  lady,  while,  ere  he  reached 
her,  Alixe  and  Gerault  had  halted  at  her  side. 
[23] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  Indeed,  my  mother,  thou  art  well  come 
hither  at  this  time.  Prithee  join  us  in  our 
walk.  For  some  time  past  Alixe  and  I  have 
been  speaking  of  thee.  See,  the  air  is  sweet, 
for  it  comes  off  the  fields  to-night." 

"Indeed,  'tis  sweet  —  sweeter  than  sum 
mer,"  said  Eleanore,  smiling  as  she  joined 
the  twain.  "  But  mayhap  I  shall  break  your 
pleasure  by  coming  with  you,  for  you  are  gay 
and  young,  and  I  — " 

They  moved  on  without  having  noticed  him, 
and  Courtoise  lost  the  rest  of  Eleanore's  speech. 
But  the  squire  remained  in  the  field,  watching 
the  three  move  back  and  forth  in  the  deepen 
ing  dusk.  When  they  came  toward  him  for 
the  last  time,  and  passed  through  the  gate  in 
the  north  wall,  returning  to  the  Castle,  all 
three  faces  were  as  calm  as  madame's,  and 
Courtoise  permitted  himself  only  one  sigh  for 
the  lost  summer  at  Rennes. 

Oddly  enough,  the  squire's  regrets  proved 
to  be  premature,  for  immediately  after  the 
evening  meal  he  was  summoned  by  Gerault  to 
the  Seigneur's  room,  to  make  ready  for  the 
journey.  Gerault  did  not  deign  to  inform  his 
squire  of  the  substance  of  his  talk  in  the  fields, 
[24] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

but  from  the  tranquillity  of  his  manner  Cour- 
toise  could  not  but  perceive  that  everything 
had  gone  well.  It  was  a  late  hour  when  all 
the  necessary  preparations  had  been  made ;  and 
then  the  two,  lord  and  squire,  went  together  to 
the  chapel  and  were  there  confessed  by  Anselm, 
the  steward-priest ;  after  which  they  bade  each 
other  a  good-night,  and  sought  their  rest. 

By  sunrise,  next  morning,  the  whole  Castle 
had  assembled  at  the  drawbridge,  to  say  God 
speed  to  their  departing  lord.  Madame  Elea- 
nore,  in  bliault,  houppelande,  mantle,  and  coif 
all  of  black  and  white,  held  Gerault's  stirrup- 
cup,  and  smiled  as  she  spoke  with  him.  There 
was  a  chorus  of  chattering  demoiselles  and  a 
boyish  clattering  of  swords  and  little  armor- 
pieces  from  the  young  squires,  as  Gerault 
buckled  on  his  shield,  whereon  was  wrought  the 
motto  and  device  of  Crepuscule.  Courtoise 
had  already  fastened  to  his  lord  the  golden 
spurs.  And  now  the  two  were  mounted  and 
ready,  Gerault  with  lance  in  rest  and  white 
reins  gathered  on  his  horse's  neck ;  Courtoise, 
brimming  with  delight,  now  and  then  giving 
his  steed  a  heel  in  flank  that  caused  him  to  rear 
and  curvet  with  graceful  spirit.  For  the  last 
[25] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

time  Gerault  bent  to  his  mother's  lips,  and 
for  the  last  time  he  looked  vainly  over  the 
company  for  a  glimpse  of  Alixe,  his  recent 
mentor.  Finally  his  spurs  went  home.  The 
drawbridge  was  down  before  him,  the  port 
cullis  raised.  Amid  a  chorus  of  farewell 
cries,  he  and  Courtoise  swept  away  together, 
over  the  bridge  and  down  the  long,  gentle 
hill,  and  out  upon  the  Rennes  road,  which, 
at  some  twelve  miles  from  Le  Crepuscule, 
passed  the  priory-convent  of  Les  Vierges  de 
la  Madeleine. 

When  the  twain  were  gone,  and  the  group 
prepared  to  disperse, — <he  squires-at-arms  to 
their  sword-practice  under  the  captain  of  the 
keep,  the  sighing  demoiselles  to  their  long 
morning  of  weaving  and  embroidery, — Alixe 
suddenly  appeared  from  the  watch-tower  close 
at  hand,  inquiring  for  Madame  Eleanore. 

"  Methinks  she  hath  retreated  to  her  room, 
to  say  her  prayers  for  the  Seigneur's  safe  jour 
ney,"  Berthe  told  her.  And  Alixe,  with  a  nod 
of  thanks,  ran  to  the  Castle,  and  ascended  to 
madame's  room. 

The  door  was  open,  for  madame  was  not  at 
prayer.  She  stood  at  the  open  window,  look- 
[26] 


THE    DESOLATION    OF    AGE 

ing  out  upon  the  sea.  Alixe  could  not  see  her 
face,  but  from  the  line  of  her  shoulders  she 
read  much  of  her  lady's  heart. 

"  Madame,"  she  said,  in  a  half-whisper. 
Eleanore  turned  quickly.     "  Alixe  !  " 
"  Madame  Eleanore  —  mother  — " 
A  terrible  sob  broke  from  the  older  woman's 
throat,  and  suddenly  she  fell   upon  her  knees 
beside  a  wooden  settle,  and,  burying  her  face 
in  her  hands,  finally  gave  way  to  her  desolation. 
Alixe,  who  had  opened  her  heart,   now  com 
forted   her  as  best    she    could,  soothing    her, 
caressing  her,  whispering  to  her  in  a  magnetic, 
gentle    voice,    till    madam e's    grief    had   been 
nearly  washed   away.      Then  the    young  girl 
said,  softly,  in  her  ear: 

"  Think,  madame  !  't  is  now  but  eleven  days 
till  thou  mayest  ride  out  to  Laureat  the  priory. 
And  there  thou  canst  talk  with  her  alone,  and 
for  as  long  as  thou  wilt.  Also,  when  her  no 
vitiate  is  at  an  end,  she  may  come  here  to  thee, 
once  in  a  fortnight,  for  so  the  Mother-prioress 
hath  said." 

Eleanore    held  Alixe's    hand    close    to    her 
breast,  and  while  she  stroked  it,  a  little  convul 
sively,  she  said,  with    returning   self-control : 
[27] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  I  thank  thee  —  I  thank  thee  —  Alixe,  for  thy 
good  comfort."  Then,  in  a  different  tone,  she 
added,  with  a  little  sigh :  "  Eleven  days  — 
eleven  ages  —  how  many  others  have  I  still 
to  spend  —  alone?" 


[28] 


CHAPTER    TWO 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 


HE  priory-convent  of  the  Vir 
gins  of  the  Magdalen  was  as 
old  as  any  nunnery  in  Brit 
tany  of  its  repute.  It  had 
been  founded  in  the  early  days 
of  the  tenth  Louis  of  France 
and  his  good  lady  of  Burgundy,  long  before 
the  death  of  the  last  of  the  Dreux  lords  of 
the  dukedom.  It  was  celebrated  for  more 
than  its  age,  however ;  for  through  three  cen 
turies  it  had  held  in  ecclesiastic  Brittany,  for 
its  wealth,  its  exclusiveness,  and,  above  either 
of  these  things,  its  unswerving  chastity,  a  place 
as  unique  as  it  was  gratifying.  In  the  year 
1381  no  breath  of  scandal  had  ever  disturbed 
its  fragrant  atmosphere.  Moreover,  though 
this  was  a  fact  not  much  regarded  by  people 
in  authority,  it  was  a  remarkably  comfortable 
[29] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

little  house,  of  excellent  architecture  and  ample 
room  for  the  practice  of  any  amount  of  wor 
ship.  Its  situation,  however,  was  lonely.  It 
stood  nearly  at  the  end  of  the  Rennes  coast 
road,  on  the  outskirts  of  a  thick  forest,  twenty 
miles  from  the  town  of  St.  Nazaire-by-the-sea, 
and  twelve  from  the  Chateau  of  Le  Crepuscule. 
And  it  was  here,  in  this  pleasant  if  austere 
retreat,  that  many  a  noble  lady  of  Laval  and 
Crepuscule  had  ended  her  youth  and  worn  her 
life  away  in  the  endeavor  to  attain  undying 
sanctity. 

On  a  certain  afternoon  in  this  mid-spring 
of  1381,  the  very  day,  indeed,  that  Lord 
Gerault  took  to  the  Rennes  road  to  ease  his 
ennui,  a  little  company  of  nuns  sat  out  in  the 
convent  garden,  embroidering  away  their  recrea 
tion  time.  The  day  was  exquisite :  sunny,  a 
little  chilly,  its  breeze  laden  with  the  rare  per 
fume  of  awakening  summer.  The  garden,  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  was  a  place  of  won 
drous  beauty,  redolent  of  rich,  pregnant  soil, 
and  all  shimmering  with  the  misty  green 
of  tender  grass  and  countless  leaf-buds,  from 
the  midst  of  which  a  few  flowers,  pale  prim 
roses  and  crocuses  and  a  hyacinth  or  two, 
[30] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

•^^?^^^-g^^g^s?<!^g^g^gr>s^<^>E><s^^ 

peered  forth,  starring  the  new-planted  beds 
with  the  first  fruits  of  this  new  union  of 
earth  and  sky. 

The  spirit  of  the  spring  ruled  supreme  over 
all  natural  things.  Only  the  creatures  of  God, 
the  self-consecrated  nuns,  sat  in  the  midst  of 
this  wonder  of  the  young  world,  untouched  by 
it.  Heedless  to  the  uttermost  of  this  greatest 
of  worldly  blessings,  they  sat  plying  their  needles 
in  and  out  of  their  bright-colored,  ecclesiastical 
fabrics,  listening,  in  their  dull  and  dreamy  way, 
to  the  voice  of  one  of  their  number  who  was 
droning  out  to  them  for  the  thousandth  time 
the  old  and  long-familiar  laws  of  their  order, 
expressed  in  the  "  Rhymed  Rule  of  St.  Bene 
dict."  One  only  among  them  seemed  not 
of  their  mood.  This  was  a  young  girl,  white- 
robed  like  all  the  rest,  her  unveiled  head  pro 
claiming  her  novitiate.  As  became  her  station 
she  bent  decorously  to  her  task,  and  it  had 
taken  a  close  observer  to  see  and  read  all  the 
little  signs  she  gave  of  consciousness  of  the 
world  around  her,  the  green,  growing  things, 
and  the  liquid  bird-songs  that  came  trilling  out 
of  the  forest  near  at  hand.  Probably  not  even 
the  most  skilled  of  readers  could  have  recog- 
[31] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

nized  all  the  meaning  in  the  long,  slow  looks, 
half  wondrous  and  half  probing,  with  which, 
every  now  and  again,  she  traversed  the  circle 
effaces  about  her.  Her  self-restraint  was  very 
nearly  flawless,  and  was  successfully  maintained 
throughout  the  long  period  of  recreation ;  so 
that  not  one  of  her  companions  guessed  the 
relief  she  felt  when  the  first  clang  of  the  vesper- 
bell  roused  them  from  their  trance-like  dulness. 
But  the  young  girl  wondered  a  little  at  herself 
when  she  perceived  that  her  brows  were  damp 
with  the  sweat  of  the  constraint. 

At  this  time  Laure  of  Le  Crepuscule  was 
sixteen  years  of  age,  and  pretty  as  a  flower  to 
look  upon.  She  was  slim  and  white-faced, 
with  immense,  limpid  brown  eyes  that  were 
wont  to  move  rather  slowly,  and  burnished 
brown  hair  hanging  in  twists  to  her  knees :  an 
object  for  men  to  rave  over,  had  any  man 
worth  so  calling  ever  set  eyes  upon  her.  She 
was  young  enough  and  pure  enough  to  be  of 
unquestioning  innocence ;.  and,  until  now,  the 
fiery  life  in  her  had  found  sufficient  outlet 
in  unlimited  bodily  exercise.  She  had  seen 
nothing  of  real  life,  and  never  dreamed  of  the 
talent  she  possessed  for  it.  It  was  from  her 
[32] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 


own  heart  that  the  wish  to  consecrate  herself 
to  the  eternal  worship  of  God  had  come ;  for 
she  believed  that  in  this  way  she  should  find 
a  haven  for  those  terrible  and  fathomless  men 
tal  storms  of  which  she  had  weathered  many 
in  her  young  life,  and  of  which  her  own 
mother  never  so  much  as  dreamed.  Utterly 
ignorant  of  her  real  self,  she  was  yet  a  girl 
of  strong  intellect,  of  great  versatility,  of  over 
weening  passions,  and  withal  as  feminine  a 
creature  as  the  Creator  ever  fashioned.  Both 
her  temperament  and  her  appearance  more 
resembled  the  dwellers  of  the  far  South  — 
Provence  or  even  Navarre  —  than  the  children 
of  the  rugged,  chilly  shores  of  northern  Brit 
tany  ;  for  her  skin  had  the  dark,  creamy  pallor 
of  the  South,  and  her  eyes  held  none  of  the 
keen  fire  that  glows  in  the  North,  while  her 
hair  grew  low  above  her  smooth,  white  brow. 

Laure's  temperament  was  dramatically  mo 
bile.  She  adapted  herself  almost  unconsciously 
to  any  mode  or  situation  of  life,  and  this, 
though  she  did  not  know  it,  was  all  that  she 
was  doing  now.  It  was  with  real,  if  subdued 
pleasure  that  she  went  through  the  services  of 
the  day.  From  matins,  which,  at  this  period 
-  [3]  [33] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

tg^r^T^^^^^g^^g^g^gg^s^s^ssag^s^s^^ 

of  the  year,  began  at  the  cheerless  hour  of  four 
in  the  morning,  till  compline,  at  eight  in  the 
evening,  when  the  church  bell  tolled  the  end 
of  another  day  of  prayer,  Laure's  nature  was 
under  a  kind  of  religious  spell,  which  she  and 
those  about  her  had  joyfully  interpreted  as  a 
true  vocation. 

The  first  eleven  days  of  Laure's  convent 
life  passed  away  in  comparative  calmness ;  and 
she  found  no  weariness  in  them.  On  the 
twelfth,  Madame  Eleanore  rode  in  from  Le 
Crepuscule  to  see  her  daughter.  She  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  convent  as  speedily  as  if  the  little 
lay  sister  had  known  the  devouring  eagerness 
of  the  mother-heart ;  and  because  she  was  a 
lady  of  consequence,  and  because  she  was 
known  to  be  very  generous  to  the  Church,  and 
especially  because  the  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire 
was  her  close  friend,  she  was  not  left  to  wait  in 
the  reception-room,  but  conducted  straight  to 
the  Prioress'  cell. 

Mere  Piteuse  received  Madame  Eleanore 
with  anxious  cordiality.  After  their  greetings 
the  guest  seated  herself,  and  was  obliged  to 
keep  silence  for  a  moment  before  she  could 
ask  quietly,  — 

[34] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

"And  Laure,  Reverend  Mother, —  how  fares 
my  child  ?  Is  she  content  with  you  ?  "  Elea- 
nore's  heart  throbbed  with  unconfessed  hope 
as  she  asked  this  question.  For  if  Laure  was 
not  content,  she  might  return  at  will  to  the 
Castle,  her  home,  and  her  mother's  heart. 

But  the  Prioress  returned  Eleanore's  look 
with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "  In  a  moment 
Laure  will  come  hither.  I  have  sent  for  her. 
Then  thou  shalt  learn  from  her  own  lips  how 
well  her  life  goes.  Never,  I  think,  hath  our 
priory  received  a  new  daughter  that  showed 
herself  so  happy  in  her  vocation.  We  shall 
call  her  name  Angelique  at  her  consecration." 

Eleanore  felt  her  body  grow  cold,  and  her 
head  swim.  Her  face,  however,  betrayed 
nothing.  Her  little  girl,  then,  was  really 
gone !  Laure,  the  wild  bird,  was  tamable. 
She  —  could  she  become  "  Angelique  "? 

Neither  madame  nor  the  Prioress  spoke 
again  till  there  was  a  sound  of  gentle  footsteps 
in  the  corridor,  followed  by  a  light  tap  on  the 
wooden  door  of  the  cell. 

"  Enter  ! "  cried  the  Prioress  ;  and  Laure 
came  quietly  in. 

First  of  all  she  bowed  to  Mere  Piteuse. 
[35] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Then,  as  Eleanore  involuntarily  held  out  her 
arms,  the  girl  went  into  them,  and  kissed  her 
mother  with  a  warmth  and  a  sweetness  that 
perhaps  Eleanore  had  not  known  from  her 
before.  At  the  same  moment  the  Prioress 
•  rose  quietly,  and  left  the  room.  The  instant 
that  she  was  gone,  Eleanore  seized  the  girl  in 
a  still  closer  embrace,  and  held  her  tightly  and 
more  tightly  to  her  breast. 

"  Laure,  my  darling !  Laure,  my  sweet 
child  !  how  hath  my  heart  yearned  for  thee  ! 
How  hath  thy  name  lain  ever  on  my  lips  while 
I  slept,  and  been  enshrined  in  my  heart  by 
day  !  " 

The  young  girl's  arms  wound  themselves 
about  her  mother's  neck,  and  she  laid  her  head 
upon  that  shoulder  where  it  had  been  wont  to 
rest  in  her  babyhood.  And  Laure  sighed  a 
little,  not  unhappily,  but  like  a  child  tired  of 
play. 

"  Laure,  wilt  thou  remain  here  in  the  con 
vent  ?  Art  thou  happy  ?  Dost  thou  wish  it,  or 
wilt  thou  come  home  again  to  Crepuscule  ?  " 

A  sudden  image  of  the  gray  Castle,  with  its 
vast  hall,  and  the  great  fire  blazing  in  the 
chimney-place  within,  and  all  the  well-known 
[36] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

figures  assembled  there  for  a  meal,  —  Alixe, 
Gerault,  the  demoiselles  and  young  squires 
headed  by  Courtoise,  and  the  burly  men-at- 
arms  that  had  played  with  her  and  carried  her 
about  as  a  little  child, — all  the  long-familiar, 
comfortable  scenes  of  her  old  life  came  before 
the  girl's  eye.  And  then  —  then  she  drew  a 
little  breath  and  answered  her  mother,  unfal 
tering  :  "  'T  is  beautiful  here,  and  sweet  and 
holy  withal.  I  am  content,  dear  mother.  I 
will  remain." 

"  And  hast  thou,  then,  the  vocation  in  thy 
heart,  whereby  some  souls  are  claimed  of  God 
from  birth  to  death,  and  find  the  utmost  of 
their  happiness  in  His  communion  ?  " 

Laure's  great  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the 
mother's  sad  face  as  she  replied  again,  very 
softly :  "  Yea,  my  mother.  That,  from  my 
heart,  do  I  believe." 

Eleanore  sighed  deeply,  and  then  quickly 
smiled  again.  "  Think  not  that  I  mourn,  my 
daughter,  for  having  yielded  thee  up  to  the 
Church.  May  this  blessed  spirit  remain  in 
thee,  bringing  thee  everlasting  peace." 

Then,  while  Laure  still  clung  to  her,  the 
mother  herself  put  the  closely  clasped  arms 
[37] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

away  from  her  neck,  and  drew  the  novice  to 
her  feet.  "  Now,  my  Laure,  I  must  go.  But 
my  thoughts  are  still  left  with  thee." 

"But  thou  wilt  come,  mother?  —  In  ten 
days'  time  thou  wilt  come  to  me  again  ?  " 

"  Yea,  sith  it  is  permitted  by  the  rules  that 
I  see  thee  once  more,  I  will  surely  come,"  she 
answered  quietly. 

"  Laure  will  greatly  rejoice  at  thy  coming," 
said  the  Prioress,  gently,  from  the  doorway. 

So  Eleanore  renewed  her  promise,  and 
shortly  after  rode  away  from  the  priory  gate, 
into  the  thick  wood  through  which  ran  the 
road  to  Crepuscule. 

Her  mother's  visit  brought  Laure  two  days 
of  extremest  homesickness  and  yearning.  Then 
she  regained  her  independence,  and  began  to 
find  a  new  delight  in  her  surroundings.  The 
perfect  peace  of  it,  the  infinite,  delightful  detail 
of  worship,  with  its  multifarious  candle-points, 
and  its  continual  clouds  of  fragrant  incense,  all 
wrought  together  into  a  life  of  undeviating 
regularity,  brought  to  the  novice  a  sense  of 
peculiar  safety  and  freedom  from  vexation  or 
care  that  was  quite  new  to  her,  for  all  her 
youth.  The  day  began  with  matins,  repeated 
[38] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

by  each  nun  alone  in  her  cell.  Laure  had 
been  given  a  room  in  a  corner  of  the  priory,  at 
the  very  end  of  the  corridor  of  novices,  and 
she  gained  therefrom  an  added  sense  of  ex- 
clusiveness  and  seclusion.  She  had  not  once 
been  late  in  her  answer  to  the  matins  bell,  and 
the  mistress  of  novices,  passing  Laure's  cell  on 
her  first  round  of  the  day,  had  never  failed  to 
find  her  praying.  Laure  came  of  a  pious  house, 
and  had  known  her  prayers,  all  the  forms  of 
them,  long  before  she  entered  the  priory.  They 
required  no  thought  in  the  repetition,  and 
therefore  there  was  many  a  morning  when  she 
played  the  parrot  at  her  desk,  either  too  sleepy, 
or  too  much  occupied  with  thoughts  and  dreams, 
to  heed  the  familiar  addresses  to  God.  This 
was  not  entirely  a  fault,  perhaps.  The  morn 
ings  came  very  early  in  these  days,  and  there 
were  wonderful  things  to  be  seen  through  her 
cell-window.  She  saw  the  dawn,  golden-girdled, 
garbed  in  flowing  rose-color,  unlock  the  eastern 
portals  of  the  sky.  She  saw  stars  and  moon 
glimmer  faintly  and  more  faint,  and  finally  sink 
to  rest  under  the  high,  clear  green  of  the  morn 
ing  heaven.  Last  of  all,  over  the  feathery  line 
of  trees  that  made  a  horizon  for  her  at  her  cell- 
[39] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

window,  she  could  see  the  first  dazzling  ladder 
of  the  sun  lifted  up  to  lean  against  the  east. 
And  then  Laure  would  long  for  the  murmur 
of  devotion  to  be  stilled  in  the  Abbey,  for 
sun-mists  were  filling  the  Heavens,  and  from 
the  forest  the  bird-chorus  rose  to  a  full-throated 
tuttiy  in  its  hymn  of  glorification  to  the  new 
day. 

This  morning  benediction  that  she  found, 
Laure  kept  to  herself  by  day,  and  carried  with 
her  until  dark.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
priory  to  whom  she  could  have  confided  her 
pleasure,  for  there  was  none  in  the  Abbey 
that  had  her  love,  or,  indeed,  any  love  at 
all,  for  the  world  that  God  had  made  for 
Himself  and  for  mankind.  The  day-tasks 
also  had  their  pleasures  for  the  novice.  She 
learned,  in  time,  that  she  was  not  obliged 
to  fill  her  recreation  hours  with  embroidery  ; 
but  that  she  might  sleep,  or  pray,  or  work 
in  the  garden,  or  do  whatever  a  quiet  fancy 
should  select.  So  she  chose  to  befriend  the 
soil,  and  played  with  it  as  if  it  were  a  ten 
der  companion.  And  after  her  exercise  here, 
the  rest  of  the  day,  nones,  vespers,  supper, 
confession,  and  compline,  melted  away  almost 
[40] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 


unheeded,  leaving  her  at  last  to  the  sweet- 
breathed  night,  and  to  a  sleep  as  dreamless 
and  as  sound  as  that  of  any  baby. 

In  this  most  simple  way,  without  any  un 
toward  happening,  without  her  once  leaving 
the  priory,  the  days  flowed  on,  spring  melted 
into  summer,  and  Laure  found  herself  pos 
sessed  of  an  infinite  and  ever-increasing  con 
tent,  the  great  secret  of  which  probably  lay 
in  the  fact  that  every  waking  hour  had  its 
occupation.  She  had  entered  her  new  life  in 
the  most  beautiful  time  of  the  year,  and,  heed 
less  of  this,  began,  in  her  delusive  happiness, 
to  wonder  why,  long  ago,  the  whole  world  had 
not  taken  to  such  existence.  She  had  plenty 
of  time  to  indulge  in  dreams,  —  vague  and  frag 
ile  dreams  of  the  great  world  and  the  people 
dwelling  therein,  that  she  should  never  come 
to  know.  But  the  fact  that  she  could  never 
know  them  did  not  come  home  to  her  with 
the  force  of  a  deprivation.  She  did  not  feel 
herself  to  be  a  hopeless  prisoner.  She  was 
not  professed ;  and  the  fact  that  there  still 
remained  to  her  a  free  choice  easily  kept  her 
from  any  over-vivid  perception  of  the  eternal 
dulness  of  convent  life. 
[41] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Once  in  two  weeks  Madame  Eleanore  came 
to  see  her,  and  if  these  visits  were  bitter  to 
the  mother,  Laure  never  guessed  it.  Also, 
from  time  to  time,  the  professed  nuns  would 
leave  the  convent  for  a  day  or  two  at  a 
time,  on  what  errands  the  novices  were  not 
told.  But  Laure  knew  that  similar  privileges 
would  be  hers  after  her  profession. 

The  summer,  in  its  fulness  and  beauty, 
passed  away.  Purple  autumn  came  and  went. 
And  one  day,  in  the  first  cold  weather,  Laure 
was  summoned  to  the  Mother-prioress'  room, 
where  she  was  told  a  proud  thing.  It  was 
that,  if  she  chose  profession  at  the  end  of 
her  novitiate,  which  would  come  in  the 
Christmas  season,  her  consecration  might  take 
place  at  the  same  time,  by  special  permission 
from  the  highest  power;  for,  by  ordinary 
ecclesiastic  law,  she  was  still  many  years  too 
young  for  this  consummation  of  the  celibate 
life.  But  if  she  so  chose,  his  Grace  the  Bishop 
of  St.  Nazaire  would  perform  the  ceremony 
of  sanctification  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  Decem 
ber,  directly  after  the  forty-eight-hour  vigil 
of  the  birth  of  the  Christ. 

Laure  heard  this  news  with  every  appear- 
[42] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

^^^^^^^'^'^^s^s^'gr^p^r^^^ 

ance  and  every  expression  of  delight ;  and 
when  she  returned  to  the  church  for  tierce 
and  morning  mass,  she  tried,  all  through 
the  service,  to  bring  herself  face  to  face  with 
herself,  to  appreciate,  as  she  was  conscious 
that  she  must,  sooner  or  later,  the  intense 
gravity  of  her  position.  But  for  some  reason, 
by  some  failure  of  concentrative  force,  she 
could  not  bring  her  mind  to  the  point  of 
understanding.  Over  and  over  again  her 
thoughts  slid  around  that  one  fact  that  she 
knew  she  must  try  to  realize, — how,  after 
the  giving  of  her  final  pledge,  there  could 
be  no  turning  back,  there  could  be  no  es 
cape,  while  she  should  live,  from  this  life  of 
prayer.  She  did  not  appreciate  it  at  all. 
She  only  remembered  that  she  had  been  very 
contented  here,  and  that  the  days  were  never 
long. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  her  talk  with 
Mere  Piteuse,  Laure  enacted  this  same  scene 
of  effort  with  herself  many  times,  always 
futilely.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  too  grave 
a  responsibility  to  put  upon  the  shoulders 
of  a  child  in  years  and  a  less  than  child  in 
experience.  But  this  unfairness  was  one  of 
[43] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

the  prerogatives  of  monasticism,  unappreciated 
to  this  day. 

Christmas  time  drew  near ;  and  gradually 
Laure  dropped  her  efforts  toward  understand 
ing  and  fell  into  dreams  of  a  varied  and  com 
plex,  if  unimportant,  nature.  She  was  to  be 
professed  alone,  on  the  day  after  Christmas. 
No  novice  had  entered  the  convent  within 
three  months  of  her,  and,  moreover,  her  birth 
and  position  made  it  desirable  that  she  should 
be  surrounded  by  a  little  extra  pomp ;  for, 
although  Laure  did  not  know  it,  she  was  much 
looked  up  to  by  the  nuns  of  humbler  birth, 
and  universally  regarded  as  a  future  prioress 
of  the  house.  During  the  last  days  of  her 
novitiate  the  young  girl  was  treated  with 
peculiar  reverence  and  consideration,  and  she 
was  given  a  good  deal  of  time  for  solitary  re 
flection  and  prayer.  Every  day  she  was  sum 
moned  to  the  cell  of  the  Prioress,  who  herself 
gave  the  girl  good  counsel  and  instruction 
upon  the  higher  life ;  while  so  much  general 
attention  was  paid  her  that  Laure  became  a 
little  astonished  at  her  own  importance. 

In  the  first  three  weeks  of  December 
Madame  Eleanore  did  not  come  at  all  to  see 
[44] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

her  daughter,  and  Laure  grew  lonely  for  her. 
She  suspected  nothing  of  her  mother's  heart- 
sickness  over  the  approaching  ceremony  that 
was  to  cut  her  child  off  from  her  forever ;  and, 
indeed,  had  Laure  been  told  of  the  mother- 
feeling,  she  could  not  have  understood  it. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty- third  day  of 
December  the  novice  was  kneeling  in  her  cell, 
supposedly  at  prayer,  in  reality  indulging  in  a 
rather  forlorn  and  melancholy  reverie.  It  was 
the  hour  of  recreation ;  and  the  convent  was 
very  quiet,  for  most  of  the  nuns  were  sleep 
ing,  in  preparation  for  the  strain  of  the  forty- 
eight-hour  Christmas  service.  The  stillness 

D 

brought  a  chill  to  Laure's  heart,  and  she  was 
near  to  tears,  when  her  door  was  suddenly 
pushed  open,  and  some  one  halted  there. 
Laure  turned  quickly  enough  to  see  the  white- 
robed  Prioress  disappear,  closing  the  door  be 
hind  a  figure  that  remained  motionless  inside 
the  threshold. 

"  My  mother  !  "  cried  Laure,  springing  to 
her  feet. 

"  Laure,"  was  the  quivering  response,  as 
Eleanore  held  out  her  arms. 

The  dreamer,  suddenly  become  a  little  child, 
[45] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


went  into  the  mother-clasp,  her  pristine  home, 
and  was  half  carried  over  to  the  only  seat  in 
the  room,  —  a  wooden  tabouret,  large  enough 
for  only  one.  Upon  this  Eleanore  seated  her 
self,  while  Laure  sank  to  the  floor  beside  her, 
huddling  close  to  the  human  warmth  of  her 
mother,  her  head  lying  in  that  mother's  lap, 
both  hands  held  tightly  in  the  larger,  stronger, 
older  ones. 

"  Laure  —  my  Laure  —  my  little  Laure  !  " 
was  all  that,  at  this  time,  madame  could  force 
her  lips  to  say.  And  hearing  it,  the  girl,  sud 
denly  overwrought  and  overswept  with  re 
pressed  yearning  for  home  love,  all  at  once 
burst  into  a  convulsive  flood  of  tears. 

Some  moments  passed,  and  the  sobs,  instead 
of  diminishing,  began  to  increase  in  violence, 
till  Eleanore  became  alarmed.  Certain  unex 
pressed  fears  took  possession  of  her.  She 
made  no  effort  to  bring  them  into  definite 
order  in  her  mind.  They  merely  joined  them 
selves  to  a  shadow  that  had  long  since  come 
upon  her  in  the  form  of  a  question :  What, 
in  bare  reality,  was  this  vast  monster  called 
"  the  Church  "  ?  Why  had  it  a  right  to  step 
thus  between  mother  and  child  ?  How  could 
[46] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

such  a  thing  be  called  holy  ?  Filled  with  this 
idea,  and  realizing  to  the  full  how  desperately 
short  was  her  chance,  Eleanore  set  herself  to 
work,  through  every  means  known  to  her,  to 
quiet  Laure,  to  stop  her  tears,  and  to  gain  her 
earnest  attention. 

Under  madame's  determined  calm,  it  was 
not  long  before  Laure  was  brought  back  to 
self-control.  And  when  she  was  quiet,  the 
mother,  sitting  very  straight  in  her  place,  drew 
the  girl  to  her  feet,  and,  holding  her  fast  by 
the  hand,  while  she  looked  steadily  into  the 
clear,  brown  eyes,  she  asked,  slowly,  with  an 
emphasis  born  of  her  desperation, — 

"  Laure,  is  it  indeed  in  thy  heart  to  remain, 
of  thy  free  will  and  desire,  forever  in  this 
house,  forsaking  all  that  was  dear  to  thee  of 
youth  and  love,  and  freedom,  in  thy  home, 
Le  Crepuscule  ?  " 

Laure,  while  she  looked  at  her  mother,  gave 
a  sudden  sigh,  and  her  face  became  staring 
pale.  Eleanore  strove  to  fathom  her  daugh 
ter's  look,  but  could  know  nothing  of  the 
flood  of  natural  desire  and  youth  that  was 
oversweeping  the  girl.  Laure's  resistance 
against  it  was  silence.  She  sat  still,  cowed 
[47] 


and  bent,  while  the  noise  of  the  waters  filled 
her  ears  and  her  heart  was  near  to  bursting 
with  suffocation  and  yearning.  Before  this 
silence,  however,  these  passionate  moments 
gradually  ebbed  away.  The  wave  retreated, 
and  her  heart  shut  tight.  Words  and  phrases 
from  Holy  Scriptures,  books  of  prayer,  and  St. 
Benedict's  Rule,  came  crowding  to  her,  and 
she  considered  to  herself  how  she  might  show 
her  mother  the  sin  of  her  suggestion.  But,  as 
she  had  kept  silence  one  way,  so  now  she 
practised  it  in  the  other.  After  the  long  pause 
her  voice  found  itself  in  three  words  only, — 

"  My  mother  !  —  madame  !  " 

Eleanore's  eyes  fell.  Her  hope  was  gone. 
For  the  thousandth  time  her  religion  rose  to 
shame  her,  before  her  child,  for  the  absorbing 
love  of  her  motherhood.  Presently  Laure, 
standing  before  her,  more  like  her  judge  than 
like  the  disconsolate  creature  she  had  so  lately 
comforted,  spoke  again, — 

"  Madame,  here  in  this  place  have  I  found 
contentment.  There  is  no  sorrow  and  no  de 
sire  when  one  lives  but  to  pray  and  sleep,  and 
wake  and  pray  again.  God  lives  here  contin 
ually  in  our  hearts  and  He  begets  in  us  the 
[48] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

*sgr^^T^?^^~^^Sr^:^^g^€i^g^\"?^^<?'  g^<7^cr -g^-fp-q-  -gy-gpg 

love  that  we  bear  for  each  other.  Moreover, 
after  my  profession  and  consecration,  much 
freedom  will  be  added  to  my  life.  I  shall  have 
no  more  long  hours  of  instruction,  nor  shall 
I  be  called  on  to  do  the  bidding  of  any  one 
save  perhaps  that  of  the  Reverend  Mother. 
And  whereas  thou  ridest  hither  to  me  each 
fortnight,  I,  after  my  vow,  may  go  instead  to 
thee,  to  see  thee  and  mine  ancient  home.  — 
Nay,  mother,  forgive  me  that  I  rebuke  thy 
words ;  but  thou  must  not  urge  me  thus,  for 
my  spirit  is  not  as  yet  very  strong  or  very 
much  tried,  and  is  like  to  break  under  temp 
tation." 

Dry-eyed  and  straight-lipped,  Eleanore 
rose  from  her  place  and  kissed  her  daughter, 
saying,  — 

"  This  is  farewell,  dear  child,  till  thou  shalt 
come  home  to  me  for  the  first  time  after  thy 
wedding  with  Heaven.  My  humble  and  earthly 
blessing  be  upon  thee,  —  and  mayst  thou  find 
thy  spirit  strong,  my  Laure,  when  thou  shalt 
have  need  (3f  it;  as,  in  God's  time,  thou  surely 
wilt." 

Once  again  the  mother  kissed  her  girl  — 
kissed  her  in  final  renunciation.  Laure  felt  a 
[  *  ]  49 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

ff^Vv^*5=ga£ssaS3Sas^JsSa5^s^j^5=s5=S^^ 

burning  upon  her  brow  long  after  madame 
had  left  the  room.  Eleanore's  last  words  also 
somewhat  affected  the  novice,  —  brought  her 
a  dim  sense  of  uneasiness  and  foreboding.  But 
it  was  in  silence  that  she  saw  the  black-robed 
figure  leave  the  cell,  and  in  silence  she  remained 
for  a  long  time  after  she  was  left  alone,  thinking 
over  what  had  passed. 

Laure  had  acted  in  such  perfect  sincerity 
that  the  wound  she  inflicted  on  her  mother, 
and  the  mortification  she  put  upon  her,  were 
neither  of  them  realized.  It  was  not  wonder 
ful  that  the  impulses  of  the  girl's  heart  had 
been  stilled  by  the  unceasing  precept  of  the 
past  months.  Her  years  were  naturally  pow 
erless  to  fathom  her  mother's  heart,  the  heart 
of  her  who  sees  herself  completely  separated 
in  every  interest  from  the  one  that  has  always 
been  nearest  and  dearest.  And  so  the  argu 
ment  that  she  conducted  within  herself  after 
her  mother's  going  was  not  one  of  justification 
of  her  own  act,  but  —  oh,  ye  gods  !  —  an  at 
tempted  justification  of  Eleanore's  impiety. 

Laure  passed  the  next  two  days  in  an  odor 
of  extreme  sanctity,  and  hailed  with  deep  in 
ward  joy  the  beginning  of  the  long  vigil  of  the 
[50] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

s£?s'g^^^^s^s?a^^^pg^^sssssaa^67g~s^6-^^~sass 

birth  of  the  Saviour,  on  Christmas  Eve.  She 
was  excused  from  keeping  steadily  in  church 
through  this  protracted  service,  for  the  reason 
that  she  would  be  obliged,  according  to  the 
Rule,  to  spend  the  night  after  her  consecration 
alone  in  the  church,  at  prayer.  Throughout 
Christmas  Day  Laure  was  in  a  state  of  repressed 
nervous  excitement.  Was  not  to-morrow  to 
be  her  wedding-day  ?  Was  she  not  to  become 
what  the  first  Magdalen  had  never  been, — 
the  bride  of  Christ?  Her  prayers  throughout 
this  day  were  mingled  with  thoughts  of  the 
highest  purity,  the  most  refined  spiritual  ec 
stasy,  the  most  shining,  uplifted  innocence. 
Tears  of  joy  and  of  proud  humility  flowed 
readily  from  her  eyes,  while  her  mouth  was 
filled  with  heavenly  praises  that  welled  up 
from  her  heart. 

In  the  afternoon  she  was  sent  away  to  rest ; 
for  the  Mother-prioress  was  considerate  of  her 
strength.  Laure  did  not,  however,  lie  down. 
Instead,  she  stood  for  more  than  an  hour  at 
the  window  of  her  cell,  looking  out  over  the 
world,  and  watching  the  fine  feathery  snow- 
flakes  float  down  through  the  clear  blue  air. 
The  earth  was  wrapped  in  a  mantle  whiter  than 
[51] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

her  consecration  robe  and  veil.  Perhaps  it 
was  a  shroud.  Laure  shivered  at  the  thought, 
while  she  contemplated  the  unutterable  stillness 
of  all  things.  Not  a  sound  disturbed  this  vast 
scene  of  death.  The  tree-boughs  bent  low 
under  the  weight  of  their  pure  burden ;  and  when 
the  early  evening  fell,  and  vespers  chimed  out 
over  the  valley,  the  tiny,  frozen  tears  of 
Heaven  still  floated  through  the  dark  with 
ever-increasing  softness. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  Soeur  Celeste, 
the  chaplain,  came  to  summon  the  bride-elect 
to  confession  and  interrogation  with  Mon- 
seigneur  the  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire.  As  the 
two  women  passed  together  down  the  long 
corridor  of  novices,  through  the  cold  cloister 
and  empty  refectory  and  along  the  passage 
leading  to  the  chapter,  Laure's  heart  was 
struck  with  a  chill  of  fear.  How  terribly 
empty  the  convent  was !  No  one  in  the 
refectory,  the  corridors  scarcely  lighted,  the 
whole  convent  utterly  silent;  for  the  drone 
of  prayers  in  the  church  was  inaudible  here. 
She  wondered  how  the  terrible  vigil  pro 
gressed,  how  many  nuns  had  fainted  in  their 
fatigue.  She  thought  of  anything  but  the 
[52] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

matter  before  her,  and  was  still  unprepared 
when  the  chaplain  left  her  alone  at  the  door 
of  the  chapter. 

The  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire  was  alone  in  this 
room,  and  at  Laure's  appearance  he  rose  and 
went  to  her,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  and  not 
amazed  to  find  her  icy  cold. 

"  My  daughter  !  "  he  said  gently ;  and 
Laure,  looking  into  his  face,  was  suddenly 
filled  with  an  ineffable  comfort. 

She  had  known  the  Bishop  all  her  life,  for 
he  was  her  mother's  close  friend  and  a  constant 
visitor  at  Le  Crepuscule.  But  never  before  had 
she  seen  him  in  this  fulness  of  his  office,  so 
replete  with  magnetic  spirituality.  If  the  un 
swervingly  narrow  tenets  of  his  creed  made 
St.  Nazaire  too  arbitrary  where  his  religion 
was  concerned,  and  if  the  geniality  of  his  own 
nature  had,  at  times,  brought  upon  him  in  his 
own  home  reactions  that  afterwards  rendered 
necessary  the  severest  penances,  at  least  these 
two  extremes  of  his  life  had  brought  him  to  a 
remarkable  intermediate  balance.  Irrespective 
of  his  state,  he  could  be  defined  as  a  man  of 
the  world,  of  large  sympathies,  having  a  broad 
understanding  of  human  frailty,  because  of  the 
[53] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

unconquerable  weaknesses  of  his  own  nature. 
His  ethical  code  was  one  of  high  severity  and 
strict  purity  ;  and  he  strove  with  all  the  power 
of  his  spirit  to  follow  it  himself,  never  failing, 
the  while,  to  excuse  the  eternal  failures  of 
others.  And  now,  as  Laure  looked  up  into 
his  large,  smooth-shaven  face,  framed  in  long 
fair  hair,  and  lighted  by  a  pair  of  bright  blue 
eyes  that  generally  regarded  the  world  with  a 
surprising  air  of  trustful  innocence,  the  young 
novice  lost  all  her  sense  of  desolation,  and  felt 
herself  suddenly  introduced  into  a  secure  and 
unhoped-for  haven. 

St.  Nazaire  himself,  examining  the  young 
girl's  face,  and  searching  her  soul  therein,  knew 
that  at  this  moment  he  was  nearer  to  the  in 
most  being  of  the  daughter  of  Le  Crepuscule 
than  he  should  ever  be  again ;  and  he  felt  that 
no  one  ever  yet  had  been  in  a  position  to  probe 
the  depths  of  her  nature  as  he  was  going  to 
probe  them  now.  She  gave  herself  up  to  him 
as  completely  as  Eleanore  had  given  her  once 
long  ago,  when,  as  a  new-born  infant,  she  had 
wailed  in  his  arms  at  her  baptism  before  the 
altar  in  the  chapel  of  the  Twilight  Castle. 

With  this  strong  feeling  of  mutual  confi- 
[54] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

dence,  Laure  and  the  Bishop  seated  themselves 
in  the  chapter  of  the  convent.  Confession  and 
stereotyped  interrogation  were  gone  through 
with  dutifully,  and  then  followed  what  Laure 
had  begun  to  wish  for  at  the  first  moment  of 
their  meeting,  —  a  long  and  intimate  talk  upon 
the  life  that  she  should  lead  as  a  professed  nun. 
It  was  a  life  with  which  St.  Nazaire  was  as 
fully  conversant  as  a  man  could  ever  be,  and 
he  pictured  it  to  Laure  as  faithfully  as  he  was 
accustomed  to  picture  Heaven — a  heaven  of 
flying  men  and  women  carrying  in  their  hands 
small  golden  harps  —  to  those  that  received  the 
last  sacrament  at  his  hands.  Laure  had  a  vision 
of  long  years  filled  ever  fuller  of  transcendent 
joy  and  peace,  in  which  she  should  never  know 
a  wish  that  her  life  could  not  fill,  nor  a  desire 
beyond  more  earnest  prayers,  or  a  fast  a  little 
longer  and  more  rigorous  than  heretofore. 
And  so  skilful  was  the  Bishop  in  the  manip 
ulation  of  his  sombre  material,  that  he  got 
from  it  remarkable  beauties  which,  impossible 
as  it  seems,  were  as  convincing  to  him  as  to 
Laure. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  the  young 
girl  received  the  episcopal  blessing  and  retired 
[55] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

through  the  still  nunnery  to  her  cell.  But 
her  mind  was  at  perfect  rest  that  night ;  and 
she  went  to  sleep  to  dream  of  nothing  but  the 
happiness  and  beauty  of  a  consecrated  life. 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty- 
sixth  day  of  December,  the  whole  convent  as 
sembled  in  church  for  high  mass,  which  was 
to  be  celebrated  by  the  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire. 
To-day  the  novices  were  separated  from  the 
professed  nuns,  and  the  two  companies  knelt 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  church,  leaving  a  broad 
space  between  them.  The  choir  was  in  its  place. 
In  the  lower  choir-stalls  sat  the  Mother-prior 
ess,  the  sub-prioress,  the  chaplain  and  the  dea 
cons  ;  while  his  Grace  was  in  the  great  chair  of 
honor  used  by  none  but  him.  The  only  mem 
ber  of  the  nunnery  not  present  was  Laure,  who 
made  her  appearance  just  as  the  bell  began  to 
ring  for  the  opening  of  the  mass.  She  came 
in  from  the  chapter-house  at  the  far  end  of 
the  church,  and  moved  slowly  up  the  aisle. 
Her  white  robe  and  full  mantle  hid  her  figure 
and  trailed  around  her  on  the  floor,  and  her 
head  was  crowned  with  the  bridal  veil,  which 
covered  her  face  and  fell  to  the  ground  all 
around  her.  In  one  hand  she  carried  a  parch- 
[56] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

merit  scroll  on  which  her  vow  was  inscribed; 
and  in  the  other  hand  she  bore  the  wedding 
ring. 

As  she  advanced  toward  the  altar  every  head 
was  turned  toward  her,  and  it  was  seen  that  she 
was  white  as  death.  But  she  was  also  very 
calm.  Indeed  she  was  acting  quite  mechani 
cally,  like  one  under  a  hypnotic  spell  ;  and 
there  was  no  expression  whatever  on  her  face 
as  she  made  her  genuflection  to  the  cross,  and 
then  turned  aside  and  knelt  among  the  com 
pany  of  novices.  She  took  her  usual  part  in 
the  mass  that  followed,  making  no  slip  in  the 
service,  and  joining  as  usual  in  the  singing, 
with  her  full  contralto  voice. 

When  the  benediction  had  been  pronounced 
from  the  chancel,  there  was  a  pause.  No  one 
in  the  church  moved  from  her  knees,  and  the 
Bishop  remained  before  the  company  with  his 
right  hand  uplifted.  Laure  raised  her  eyes, 
and  her  body  trembled  slightly,  for  her  heart 
was  palpitating  like  running  water.  When  the 
silence  had  lasted  a  seemingly  unbearable  while, 
St.  Nazaire  turned  his  face  to  Laure,  who  rose 
and  went  up  to  him,  kneeling  again  in  the 
chancel.  And  now,  as  she  spoke,  her  quiet, 
[57] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

impressive  voice  was  heard  by  every  nun  in 
the  church, — 

"  Suscipe  me,  Domine,  secundum  eloquium  tuum 
et  vivam.  Et  non  confundas  me  in  expectatione 
mea." 

As  she  finished,  Laure's  throat  contracted, 
and  she  gasped  convulsively.  Her  head  swam 
in  a  mist,  but  she  knew  that  the  Bishop  was 
questioning  her  from  the  catechism, —  knew 
that  she  was  answering  him  ;  and  then,  after 
wards,  she  heard,  as  from  a  great  distance,  the 
voice  of  the  Bishop  praying.  At  the  Amen, 
St.  Nazaire  signed  to  her  again,  and  she  rose 
and  stepped  forward  to  his  side.  Then,  turn 
ing  till  she  faced  the  church,  she  said  quite 
distinctly,  though  in  a  low  tone, — 

"  I,  Sister  Angelique,  promise  steadfastness, 
virginity,  continuance  in  virtue,  and  obedience 
before  God  and  all  His  saints,  in  accordance 
with  the  Rule  of  St.  Benedict,  in  this  Priory  of 
Holy  Madeleine,  in  the  presence  of  the  Rev 
erend  Father  Charles,  Lord  Bishop  of  St. 
Nazaire,  of  the  Duchy  of  Brittany,  Lord  under 
the  most  Christian  Duke,  Jean  de  Mont- 
fort." 

Thereafter  she  went  up  to  the  altar,  and 
[58] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

ggg»g>g>ep~«E>g--«r<;  ^<r-B^T«'"«'^^--^-*^r^fg->«^^ 

there  signed  her  scroll  with  her  new  name  and 
the  sign  of  the  cross.  And  there  the  ring  of 
Heaven  was  placed  upon  her  finger,  and  she 
was  declared  a  bride.  For  the  last  time  she 
knelt  before  the  father,  who  lifted  up  his  hands 
and  consecrated  her,  after  the  ancient  formula, 
to  the  love  of  her  Saviour,  the  blessing  of  God, 
and  the  fellowship  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  And 
then  Laure,  a  professed  nun,  came  down  from 
the  holy  place,  and  was  received  among  her 
sisters  and  reverently  saluted  by  them. 

The  ceremony  over,  all  the  convent  ad 
journed  to  the  refectory,  where  a  little  feast  of 
rejoicing  was  held  in  honor  of  the  newly  con 
secrated  one.  And  after  this,  at  an  early  hour 
of  the  afternoon,  Laure  was  conducted  to  her 
cell,  and  her  ten  days  of  retirement  began.  All 
that  afternoon,  overcome  with  the  strain  of 
the  past  few  days,  the  young  girl  slept.  She 
woke  only  when  the  Soeur  Eloise,  a  stout  and 
stupid  little  nun,  but  a  few  weeks  since  made  a 
lay  sister,  came  up  to  her  with  bread  and  milk. 
When  she  had  eaten  and  was  alone  again,  she 
sat  for  a  long  time  in  her  dark  cell,  looking 
out  upon  the  starry  night,  and  wondering 
vaguely  over  her  long  future.  Presently  the 
[59] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

bell  for  the  end  of  confession  rang  out,  and, 
knowing  that  it  was  time,  she  rose  and  went 
through  the  convent,  and  into  the  vast  church. 
The  last  of  the  nuns  had  left  it  and  gone  to 
seek  her  rest.  Only  the  sub-prioress  remained, 
waiting  for  Laure.  Seeing  her  come,  the 
older  nun  saluted  her  silently,  and  then  moved 
away  toward  the  dimly  lighted  chapter.  In 
the  doorway  of  this  room  she  turned  to  look 
back  at  the  white  figure  standing  in  the  dimly 
lighted,  incense-reeking  aisle  ;  and  then,  with 
a  faint  sigh  of  memory,  she  extinguished  all 
the  chapter  lights,  bowed  to  the  little  crucifix 
hanging  in  that  room,  and  went  her  way  to 
bed. 

Laure  was  left  alone  in  the  great,  dusky 
House  of  God.  Where  she  knelt,  before  the 
shrine  of  St.  Joseph,  two  candles  burned.  All 
around  her  was  darkness  —  silence  —  solitude. 
Awed  and  wide-eyed,  she  forced  herself  to 
kneel  upon  the  stones,  and  her  mind  vaguely 
sought  a  prayer.  But  thoughts  of  Heaven  re 
fused  to  come.  Her  Bridegroom  was  very  far 
away.  She  felt  a  cold  weight  settling  slowly 
down  upon  her  heart,  and  she  trembled,  and 
her  brows  grew  damp  with  chilly  dew.  Many 
[60] 


THE    SILENCE    OF    YOUTH 

thoughts  came  and  went.  She  remembered 
afterwards  to  have  had  a  very  distinct  vision  of 
Alixe,  standing  alone  upon  a  great  cliff  a  mile 
from  Le  Crepuscule,  with  a  wild  sea-wind  blow 
ing  her  hair  and  her  mantle,  and  white  gulls 
veering  about  her  head.  For  an  instant,  a  wild 
longing  flamed  up  through  her  soul.  Setting 
her  lips,  she  tried  to  force  her  mind  back  again 
to  God.  One  —  two — three  faltering,  rever 
ent  words  were  uttered  by  her.  Then  Laure 
du  Crepuscule  started  wildly  to  her  feet. 

"  God  !  Oh,  God  !  I  am  imprisoned  !  I 
am  captive !  I  am  captive  forever !  God ! 
Oh,  God  ! " 

As  these  wild  cries  echoed  through  the 
vaulted  roof,  she  threw  herself  passionately  to 
the  floor  and  lay  there  helpless,  while  the 
wave  of  merciless  realization  swept  over  her. 
Then  her  hands  wandered  along  the  stones 
of  the  floor,  and  her  cheek  followed  them, 
and  she  clutched  at  the  cold,  damp  granite, 
in  a  vain,  vague  search  for  her  mother's 
breast. 


[61] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

FLAMMECCEUR 


)HE  New  Year  had  come:  a 
time  of  highest  festival  in 
Brittany,  when  the  land  was 
alive  with  merriment  and  gifts 
and  legends  and  grewsome 
tales.  It  was  St.  Sylvester's 
Eve,  when,  as  all  men  knew,  the  waves  of 
the  Atlantic  for  once  defied  their  barriers 
and  struggled  up  the  towering  cliffs,  eager  to 
meet,  halfway,  the  descending  dolmens,  per 
mitted  once  in  the  year  to  leave  unguarded  the 
deep  earth-treasures,  that  they  might  quench 
their  furious  thirst  in  the  sea.  And  on  that 
night  half  the  peasants  of  Brittany  lay  awake, 
speculating  on  the  vast  wealth  that  might  be 
theirs  if  they  were  but  to  arise  and  seek  out 
some  monster  dolmen  and  wait  beside  it  till 
the  immen.se  rock  rolled  away  from  its  hole, 
leaving  a  pit  of  gold  and  gems  open  to  the 
[62] 


FLAMMECCEUR 


clutching  hands  of  the  world-man.  But  fear 
of  the  demoniac  return  of  these  same  rolling 
rocks  kept  most  of  the  dreamers  safe  within 
their  beds  during  the  fateful  midnight  hour, 
though  of  the  luck  of  the  few  daring  ones,  there 
were,  nay,  still  are,  many  veracious  tales. 

Le  Crepuscule,  no  less  than  the  surround 
ing  countryside,  participated  in  the  interest  of 
these  supernatural  matters  ;  but  the  old  Cha 
teau  had  real  affairs  of  feast  and  frolic  to  occupy 
it  also.  The  great  New  Year's  dinner  was  the 
most  lavish  that  the  Castle  gave  in  the  twelve 
month,  and  this  year,  in  spite  of  its  depleted 
household,  there  was  no  exception  made  to  the 
general  rule.  The  great  tables  were  set  in  the 
central  hall  and  loaded  with  every  sort  of  food 
and  drink,  while  kitchen  fires  roared  about  their 
juicy  meats,  and  in  the  chimney-piece  of  the 
hall  an  ox  was  roasted  whole  before  the  flames. 
Ordinarily  the  dinner  hour  at  the  Castle  was 
half-past  eleven  in  the  morning ;  but  on  feast 
days  it  was  changed  to  four  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  merriment  was  then  kept  up  till  the 
last  woman  had  retired,  and  the  last  man  found 
a  pillow  on  the  rushes  that  strewed  the  floor. 

On  this  New  Year's  eve  there  were,  as 
[63] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

usual,  two  great  tables  set ;  for  to-night  not 
only  all  the  retainers  of  the  Castle,  but  also  half 
a  hundred  of  the  tenantry  from  the  estates, 
claimed  the  privilege  of  their  fealty  and  came 
to  eat  at  the  house  of  their  lord,  sitting  below 
his  salt,  breaking  his  bread,  supping  his  beer, 
and  talking  and  laughing  and  drinking  each  till 
he  could  no  more. 

Madame  Eleanore  was  always  present  at  this 
feast,  as  a  matter  of  duty  and  of  gracious  ness. 
She  sat  to-night  at  the  head  of  the  board,  with 
an  empty  place  beside  her  for  Gerault.  Alixe 
was  upon  her  right  hand,  and  one  of  the  young 
squires-at-arms  upon  her  left ;  and  in  the  gen 
eral  hubbub  of  the  feast  none  of  the  peasant 
boors  noticed  how  persistent  a  silence  reigned 
at  that  end  of  the  table,  nor  how  wearily  sad 
was  the  expression  of  their  lady's  face. 

This  was  the  first  feast  in  many  years  at 
which  the  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire  had  not  been 
present ;  but  he  had  not  come  to  Le  Crepuscule 
since  Laure's  consecration,  and  madame  had 
given  up  hoping  for  his  arrival.  Darkness  had 
fallen  some  time  since,  and  the  hour  was  grow 
ing  late.  This  could  be  told  from  the  increased 
noise  at  the  table.  Puddings  and  crumcakes 
[64] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

S^=S=SSSS=S=S^2S=fi=!S2£i£ 

had  been  finished,  and  the  men  of  the  com 
pany  were  turning  their  attention  exclusively  to 
the  liquor  — beer  and  wine  —  which  had  been 
brought  up  to  the  hall  in  great  casks,  from 
which  each  might  help  himself.  David  le 
petit,  the  jester,  ran  up  and  down  on  the  table, 
waving  a  black  wand  and  shouting  verses  at 
the  company.  There  was  a  universal  clamor 
and  howling  of  laughter  and  song,  which 
madam e  heard  with  ever-increasing  weariness 
and  displeasure,  though  the  demoiselles  showed 
no  such  signs  of  fatigue. 

Suddenly,  through  the  tumult,  madame 
caught  a  sound  that  made  her  lift  her  head 
and  half  rise  from  her  chair,  listening  intently. 
There  had  been  a  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  on 
the  courtyard  stones. 

"  'Tis  St.  Nazaire  at  last,"  she  whispered  to 
Alixe.  "  Now  we  shall  hear  of —  Go  thou 
thyself,  Alixe,  and  fetch  hither  fresh  meat  and 
a  pasty  and  a  flagon  of  the  best  wine.  Mon- 
seigneur  must  be  weary.  He  shall  sit  here  at 
my  side  — " 

Alixe  rose  obediently  and  hurried  away 
on  her  errand ;  and  while  she  was  gone  there 
came  a  clamor  at  the  door.  A  burly  henchman 
[  5 ]  [  65  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


sprang  up  and  lurched  forward  to  open  it,  peer 
ing  out  into  the  darkness.  Those  in  the  room 
heard  a  little  ejaculation,  and  then  there  entered 
a  new-comer  with  some  one  else  beside  him. 
Neither  was  the  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire.  Both 
of  them  were  young,  —  one,  indeed,  no  more 
than  a  boy,  wearing  an  esquire's  jerkin,  hosen, 
cap,  and  mantle,  and  carrying  only  a  short  dirk 
in  his  belt.  The  other,  who  came  forward  into 
the  full  light  of  the  lamps  and  torches,  was  a 
young  man  of  six  and  twenty  or  thereabouts, 
lean  and  tall  and  graceful,  clad  in  half  armor, 
but  clean-shaved,  like  a  woman.  His  face  had 
the  look  of  the  South  in  it,  his  eyes  were  pierc 
ingly  dark,  and  his  waving  hair  as  black  as  the 
night.  In  their  first  glance  at  the  new-comer, 
most  in  the  room  took  notice  that  his  spurs 
were  not  gilt;  but  soon  a  maid  spied  out  that 
the  little  squire  carried  on  his  back  a  lute, 
strung  on  a  ribbon,  and  then  the  stranger's 
profession  was  plain. 

This  general  examination  lasted  but  the 
matter  of  a  few  seconds.  Then  Madame  Elea- 
nore  rose,  and  the  stranger  saluted  her  with  a 
grace  that  became  him  well,  and  began  to  speak 
in  a  mellow  voice,  — 

[66] 


FLAMMECCEUR 


"  Madame  la  Chatelaine,  give  thee  God's 
greeting !  I  hight  Bertrand  Flammecoeur, 
singer  of  Provence,  the  land  of  the  trouvere  ; 
and  now  find  myself  a  most  weary  traveller 
through  this  chilly  land.  Here  — "  indicating 
his  follower  with  two  slim  fingers  —  "  is  my 
squire,  Yvain.  We  come  to-day  from  the 
Castle  of  Laval,  in  the  South,  where,  in  the 
high  hospitality  of  its  lord,  we  have  sojourned 
for  some  weeks.  There,  indeed,  I  sang  in  half 
a  score  of  tenzons  with  one  Le  Fleurie,  an  able 
singer.  But  now,  to-night,  inasmuch  as  we  are 
weary  with  long  riding,  empty  for  food,  numb 
with  cold,  and  have  found  the  drawbridge  of 
this  Castle  down,  we  make  bold  to  crave  shelter 
for  the  night,  and  a  manchet  of  bread  to  com 
fort  our  stomachs  withal,"  and  the  trouvere 
bent  his  body  in  a  graceful  obeisance ;  while 
Eleanore,  smiling  her  hospitality,  stepped  for 
ward  a  little  from  where  she  stood. 

"  It  is  the  Breton  custom,  Sir  Trouvere,  to 
leave  the  drawbridge  down  during  the  holy 
weeks  of  Christmas  and  Easter  ;  and  in  those 
days  any  may  obtain  food  and  shelter  among 
us.  Thou  and  thy  squire,  however,  are  doubly 
welcome,  coming  as  ye  do  from  our  cousins  of 
[67] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Laval,  in  which  house  I,  Eleanore  du  Crepus- 
cule,  was  born.  In  the  name  of  my  son,  the 
Seigneur  Gerault,  I  return  you  God's  greeting, 
and  pray  you  to  make  this  Chateau  your  home. 
Now,  sith  ye  are  well  weary  and  anhungered, 
let  your  boy  rest  him  there  among  my  squires, 
while  you  come  here  and  sit  and  eat." 

Thereupon  little  Yvain,  after  a  bow,  ran 
eagerly  to  the  place  indicated  to  him  ;  and 
Flammecoeur,  smiling,  went  forward  at  ma- 
dame's  invitation  toward  the  place  at  her  side. 
Ere  he  reached  it,  Alixe,  who  had  been  in 
the  kitchens  and  thus  missed  the  stranger's 
entrance,  came  into  the  hall,  bearing  with  her 
a  wooden  tray  containing  food  and  red  wine. 
At  sight  of  the  stranger  she  halted  suddenly, 
and  as  suddenly  he  paused  to  make  her  rever 
ence  ;  for  by  her  dress  he  knew  her  to  be 
no  serving-wench.  In  the  instant  that  their 
glances  met,  her  green  and  brilliant  eyes  flashed 
a  flame  of  fire  into  his  dark  ones  ;  and  curiously 
enough,  a  color  rose  in  the  pale  cheeks  of  the 
man  ere  Alixe  had  thought  to  catch  the  flush 
of  maiden  modesty.  Perhaps  no  one  in  the 
room  had  noted  the  contretemps.  At  any  rate, 
Flammecceur,  taking  a  quick  glance  to  see, 
[68] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

found  none  looking  at  him  in  more  than 
ordinary  curiosity ;  whereupon  his  debonair 
self-possession  flew  back  to  him,  and,  turning 
again  to  Madame  Eleanore,  he  presently  sat 
down  to  table  and  began  his  meal.  While  he 
ate,  and  his  appetite  was  excellent,  he  found 
space  to  converse  with  every  one  about  him ; 
and  had  a  smile  for  all,  from  madame  to  the 
shyest  of  the  demoiselles.  Out  of  courtesy 
for  their  hospitality,  he  gave  a  somewhat  care 
less  and  rambling  but  nevertheless  highly  en 
tertaining  account  of  some  of  his  wanderings, 
and  was  amused  to  see  how  the  young  demoi 
selles  hung  on  his  words.  Only  upon  Alixe 
did  he  waste  his  efforts,  for  she  paid  scant  at 
tention  to  him,  listening  just  enough  to  escape 
the  charge  of  rudeness.  And  Flammecoeur 
was  man  enough  and  vain  enough  to  get  him 
self  into  something  of  a  pique  about  her  in  this 
first  hour  of  his  coming  to  Le  Crepuscule. 

When  the  stranger  had  had  his  say,  and 
proved  himself  sufficiently  "  trouvere,"  the 
general  after- feast  of  song  and  story  began. 
Both  tale  and  song  were  of  that  day,  —  broad 
enough  for  modern  ears,  but  of  their  time 
unusually  mild,  and  of  the  character  that  was 
[69] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

€5S^525^S=^a£5S^S^^t^T'S^T*C^K?SaS^=Sas^ 

to  be  heard  from  ladies'  lips.  Burliest  hench 
man  and  slenderest  squire  alike  tuned  his  verse 
for  the  ears  of  Madame  Eleanore  to  hear  ;  and 
the  wanderer,  Flammecceur,  noted  this  fact 
astutely,  and  so  much  approved  of  it  that, 
while  dwarf  David's  fairy  tale  went  on,  he 
took  a  quick  resolve  that  he  would  make  a 
temporary  home  for  himself  in  this  Castle. 

In  the  course  of  time  Flammecoeur  was 
asked  for  a  song.  Yvain  brought  his  lute  to 
him,  and  he  tuned  the  instrument  while  he 
pleaded  excuse  from  a  long  chanson.  When 
he  began,  however,  his  voice  showed  small  sign 
of  fatigue.  He  sang  a  low,  swinging  melody 
of  his  own  composing,  fitted  to  words  once 
used  in  a  Court  of  Love  in  the  south,  —  a  del 
icate  bit  of  versification  dealing  with  dreams. 
And  so  delicately  did  he  perform  his  task 
that  perfect  silence  followed  its  close. 

A  moment  later  there  was  a  sharp  round  of 
applause ;  for  these  Bretons  had  never  heard 
such  a  chansonette  in  all  their  cold-country 
lives.  Before  anything  more  could  be  de 
manded,  Flammecceur,  satisfied  with  the  im 
pression  already  made,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
turned  to  Eleanore,  saying :  "  Lady,  I  crave 
[70] 


FLAMMECGEUR 

permission  for  me  and  my  squire  to  seek  our 
rest.  We  have  ridden  many  leagues  to-day, 
and  at  early  dawn  must  be  up  and  off  again." 

Eleanore  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss. 
"  Sieur  Flammecoeur,  we  render  thee  thanks 
for  our  pleasure,  and  give  ye  God's  sleep. 
Hither,  Foulque  !  Light  the  Sieur  Trouvere 
and  his  boy  to  thy  room,  and  sleep  thou  this 
night  with  Robert  Meloc." 

The  young  squire  bowed  and  fetched  a 
torch  from  the  wall.  Yvain  came  running  to 
his  master's  side ;  and  presently,  to  the  deep 
regret  of  all  the  demoiselles,  the  three  dis 
appeared  into  the  "  long  room,"  from  which  a 
hallway  led  to  the  squires'  rooms. 

In  spite  of  Bertrand's  words  about  his  early 
departure  on  the  following  morning,  he  and 
Yvain  did  not  go  that  day.  Neither  did  they 
depart  on  the  next,  nor  within  that  week.  On 
the  morning  after  his  arrival  the  minstrel  con 
fessed,  readily  enough,  though  with  seeming 
reluctance,  that  he  had  no  particular  objective 
point  in  his  journeying;  that  he  but  travelled 
for  adventure,  for  love  of  his  lady,  and  that  it 
was  his  mind  to  linger  around  St.  Nazaire  or 
the  coast  till  spring  should  give  an  opening 
[71] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


into  Normandy.  Madame  Eleanore  would 
not  hear  of  it  that  he  should  seek  lodgings  in 
St.  Nazaire.  There  was  strong  tradition  of 
hospitality  in  Le  Crepuscule, —  ordinarily  a 
lonely  place  enough  ;  and  its  chatelaine  eagerly 
besought  the  Flaming-heart  to  lodge  with  her 
till  spring  —  and  longer  if  he  would.  And 
after  that  she  put  him,  forsooth,  into  the 
Bishop's  chamber  on  the  ground-floor,  gave 
Yvain  an  adjoining  closet,  and  would  take  no 
refusal  that  he  go  hawking  in  the  early  after 
noon  with  all  the  young  squires  of  the  Castle. 

Bertrand  took  to  his  life  at  the  Twilight 
Castle  with  a  grace,  an  ease,  and,  withal,  a 
tact  that  won  him  every  heart  within  the 
first  three  days  of  his  residence  there.  He 
was  a  man  of  the  broad  world,  such  an  one 
as  these  simple  Breton  folk  had  not  known 
before ;  for  Seigneur  Gerault  did  not  travel 
like  this  fellow,  and  had  none  of  his  manner 
for  setting  forth  tales.  The  young  squires,  the 
men-at-arms,  the  henchmen,  the  very  cooks 
and  scullions,  listened  open-mouthed  and  open- 
eyed  at  the  stories  he  told  of  adventure  and 
love,  of  distant  countries,  of  kings  and  courts 
and  mighty  wars.  Besides  this,  he  could 
[72] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

S^SSXSSSSSEiSSSiSiSS'ETJSS 

manage  a  horse  or  a  sword  like  any  warrior 
knight ;  he  was  deep  learned  in  falconry  ;  he 
could  track  a  hare  or  a  fox  through  the 
most  impossible  furze ;  and  he  could  read 
like  a  monk  and  write  like  a  scribe.  As 
for  his  accomplishments  with  the  other  sex, 
they  were  too  many  to  mention.  Before 
evening  of  the  second  day  every  woman  in  the 
Castle  from  Madame  Eleanore  down,  save, 
for  some  mysterious  reason,  Altxe,  was  at 
his  feet,  confessing  her  utter  subjection.  His 
soft  Southern  speech,  the  exquisite  Langue 
d'Oc,  used  in  Brittany  as  French  was  used  in 
England ;  his  clean,  dark,  fine-featured  face  ; 
his  glowing  eyes  ;  his  love-laden  manner,  that 
ever  dared  and  never  presumed ;  finally,  what, 
in  all  ages,  has  seemed  to  prove  most  attrac 
tive  to  women  in  men,  a  suggestion  of  past 
libertinism,  —  all  these  things  combined  to 
make  him  utterly  irresistible  to  the  feminine 
heart. 

Such  a  life  of  never-ending  adulation,  of 
universal  admiration,  was  a  paradise  to  the 
troubadour,  in  whom  inordinate  vanity  was 
the  strongest  and  most  carefully  concealed 
characteristic.  So  long  as  he  should  be  the 
[73] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

centre  of  interest,  he  was  never  bored.  But 
when  he  was  not  the  central  object,  there 
were  just  two  people  in  all  the  Castle  that 
did  not  bore  him  unendurably.  One  of  these 
was  Madame  Eleanore,  in  liking  whom  he 
betrayed  exceptional  taste ;  the  other  was 
Alixe,  who  had  piqued  him  into  attention. 
His  admiration  for  madame  was  not  wholly 
unnatural ;  for  Bertrand  Flammecceur,  love- 
child  as  he  was,  and  filled  with  unholy  pas 
sions,  was,  nevertheless,  as  his  singing  showed, 
a  man  of  refinement  and  gentle  blood.  His 
feeling  for  Alixe  was  keen,  because  it  was 
unsatisfactory.  She  was  at  no  pains  to  con 
ceal  her  dislike  for  him,  and  it  was  her  great 
est  pleasure  to  whip  a  pretty  speech  of  his 
to  rags  with  irony.  He  plied  her  with  every 
art  he  knew,  tried  every  mood  upon  her, 
and  to  Alixe's  glory  be  it  said,  she  never 
betrayed,  by  look  or  word,  that  she  had 
anything  for  him  more  than,  at  best,  con 
temptuous  indifference.  And  after  a  week 
of  effort  the  minstrel  was  obliged  to  confess 
to  himself  that  never  before,  in  all  his  adven 
tures,  had  he  met  with  so  complete  a  rebuff 
from  any  woman. 

[74] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

He  did  not,  even  then,  entirely  relax  his 
efforts.  One  morning,  ten  days  after  his 
arrival,  he  was  passing  the  chapel,  a  small 
octagonal  room  opening  off  the  great  hall 
just  beside  the  stairs,  when  he  perceived  Alixe 
within.  She  was  alone ;  and  as  he  turned  into 
the  doorway  she  was  just  rising  from  her 
knees.  Unconscious  of  his  presence,  she  re 
mained  standing  before  the  altar  looking  upon 
the  crucifix,  her  hands  fervently  clasped  before 
her.  After  watching  her  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  Flammecceur  began  to  move  noiselessly 
across  the  little  room,  and  was  at  her  very 
shoulder  before  he  said  softly, — 

"  A  fair  good  morn  to  thee,  my  demoiselle." 

Alixe  wheeled  about.  "  A  prayerful  one 
to  thee,  Sir  Minstrel ! "  she  said  sharply, 
and  would  have  left  him  but  that,  smiling, 
he  held  her  back. 

"  Nay,  ma  mie,  nay,  be  pleased  to  remain 
for  a  moment's  love-look."  Alixe  merely 
shrugged  at  his  teasing  mockery,  whereupon 
he  became  serious.  "  Listen,  mademoiselle, 
and  explain  this  matter  to  me.  Is  all  this 
Castle  under  a  vow  of  unceasing  prayer? 
Piety  beseems  a  damsel  well  enow ;  yet  never 
[  75  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

have  I  seen  a  household  so  devout.  Madame 
Chatelaine  repeats  her  prayers  five  times  a 
day ;  and  the  step  before  the  altar  here  is 
ever  weighted  by  some  ardent  maid  or  squire. 
Ohe !  Love  in  the  south  ;  prayer  in  the 
north.  Rose  of  Langue  d'Oc, —  snows  of 
Langue  d'Oi'l.  Tell  me,  Dame  Alixe,  which 
likes  thy  heart  the  most,  customs  of  my  land 
or  of  thine  ?  " 

"  This  is  all  the  land  I  know.  And  as  for 
thee  —  well,  if  thou  'rt  a  true  man  of  the  south, 
methinks  I  would  remain  here,"  she  retorted 
discourteously,  giving  him  eye  for  eye. 

"  I  do  not  my  country  so  much  despite  to 
say  its  men  are  all  like  me,"  returned  the 
Flame-hearted,  smoothly,  in  an  inward  rage. 
"  Yet  I  could  tell  thee  tales  of  thy  cold  Nor 
mandy  that  are  not  all  of  ice.  Methinks  this 
cheerless  Breton  coast  is  the  mother  of  melan 
choly  ;  for  shine  the  sun  never  so  brightly,  it 
cannot  melt  the  soul  that  hath  been  frozen 
under  its  past  winter's  sky.  But,  Demoiselle 
Alixe,"  —  Flammecoeur  dropped  his  anger, 
and  took  on  a  sudden  tone  of  exceeding  in 
terest, —  "Demoiselle  Alixe,  I  hold  in  my 
heart  a  great  curiosity  concerning  thee.  I  see 
[76] 


FLAMMECCEUR 


thee  here  living  as  a  daughter  of  the  house  ; 
yet  art  thou  called  Rieuse.  Now,  wast  thou 
born  in  Crepuscule  ?  " 

Alixe  regarded  him  with  half-closed  eyes. 
Never  had  she  resented  anything  in  him  half 
so  much  as  this  question.  Yet  she  replied  to 
him  in  a  tone  as  smooth  as  his  own :  "  Yea, 
truly  I  am  of  Le  Crepuscule,  by  heart  and 
love.  But  I  am  not  of  the  Twilight  blood. 
I  was  born  on  the  Castle  lands.  I  am  the 
foster-sister  of  the  Demoiselle  Laure." 

"  Laure  ?  " 

"  Sooth,  hast  thou  not  heard  of  Laure,  the 
daughter  of  madame  ?  " 

"  Nay.     Is  she  dead,  this  maid  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  nun." 

"Ah!     'T  is  the  same." 

"  Not  for  us  here.  Thou  must  know  she 
is  but  newly  consecrated ;  and  she  is  to  be 
permitted  to  come  home,  here,  to  the  Castle, 
once  in  a  fortnight,  to  see  madame  her  mother. 
On  the  morrow  she  will  come  for  the  first  time 
since  her  novitiate  began,  nine  months  agone." 

"  Sang  Die'u  !  Now  know  I  why  the  Castle 
breathes  with  prayer.  Madame  would  make 
all  things  holy  enough  to  receive  her.  She 
[77] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


cannot  be  old,  this  Laure,  sith  she  is  thy 
foster-sister  ? " 

"  I  am  older  than  she.  Also,  an  I  remain 
longer  from  the  tapestry,  I  shall  be  caused  to 
make  you  do  half  my  daily  task  as  a  punish 
ment  for  keeping  me  tardy.  Give  ye  God- 
den,  fair  sir,  and  pleasant  prayers ! "  And 
with  a  flutter  and  an  unholy  laugh,  Alixe  had 
whirled  past  him  and  was  gone  out  of  the 
chapel. 

Flammecoeur  looked  after  her,  but  for  the 
first  time  felt  no  inclination  for  pursuit.  Per 
haps  this  was  because,  for  the  first  time,  Alixe 
had  given  him  something  besides  herself  to 
think  about.  This  daughter  of  Madame 
Eleanore  and  her  peculiar  vocation  inter 
ested  him  extremely.  It  was  quite  surpris 
ing  to  find  how  interested  one  could  become 
in  little  matters,  after  a  few  days  in  Le  Cre- 
puscule.  So  Flammecoeur  presently  marched 
off  to  the  armory  in  search  of  Yvain,  and, 
finding  him,  he  questioned  the  little  squire 
minutely  as  to  the  gossip  of  the  keep  con 
cerning  the  Demoiselle  Laure.  Was  she  mis 
shapen  ?  This  was  the  only  excuse  for  entering 
a  nunnery  that  occurred  to  the  Flame-hearted. 
[78] 


FLAMMECCEUR 


Yvain  had  not  heard  that  she  was  deformed. 
Was  she  crossed  in  love  ?  Mayhap  ;  but  Yvain 
had  not  heard  it.  Flammecoeur  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  The  enigma  was  not  solved.  It 
mattered  little  enough,  anyway.  Alixe  had 
jilted  him  again.  Heigho  !  He  ordered  his 
horse,  and  went  to  seek  a  falcon.  While  in 
the  falcon-house  he  remembered  that  this  nun 
was  coming  to  the  Castle  on  the  morrow,  and 
he  decided  that  he  would  have  a  sight  of  her 
when  she  arrived. 

Not  unnaturally  Bertrand  Flammecoeur  had 
taken  on  the  state  of  mind  of  the  whole  Castle. 
Mademoiselle  was  coming  home  on  the  mor 
row.  Every  one  knew  it,  for  a  message  had 
arrived  on  the  previous  day  from  Monsei- 
gneur  the  Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire,  arid  Le  Cre- 
puscule  was  in  a  state  of  unwonted  excitement. 
The  word  came  to  madame  as  less  of  a  sur 
prise  than  as  an  overwhelming  relief,  and  a 
joy  that  had  some  bitterness  in  it.  It  had 
rested  with  St.  Nazaire  whether  her  child 
should  come  home  to  see  her  twice  in  the 
month  !  Ah,  well,  she  was  coming  ;  she  would 
lie  in  her  mother's  arms  ;  the  Castle  would  echo 
again  to  the  music  of  her  voice  !  Thus  through 
[79] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

the  whole  day  madame  sat  dreaming  of  the 
morrow,  nor  noticed  the  tardy  arrival  of  Alixe 
in  the  spinning-room,  nor  how,  all  morning, 
Isabelle  and  Viviane  whispered  and  smiled  and 
idled  over  their  tasks. 

Now,  if  Madame  Eleanore's  heart  and  brain 
were  full  to  overflowing  with  the  dreams  of 
Laure,  how  feverish  with  longing  came  the 
thought  of  home,  home  though  for  one  little 
hour,  to  the  prisoner  herself!  On  the  night 
before  her  going,  as,  indeed,  on  many  nights 
of  late,  Laure  could  not  sleep.  Her  eyes 
stared  wide  open  into  the  night,  while  her 
mind  traced  outlines  of  Le  Crepuscule  in  the 
soft  darkness.  Ah !  the  dearly  loved  halls 
and  their  blessed  company,  all  that  she  had 
not  seen  for  nearly  nine  months,  and  on  the 
morrow  should  see  again  !  Her  brain  burned 
with  impatience.  She  tossed  and  tumbled  on 
her  hard  and  narrow  bed.  Finally,  long  ere  the 
hour  for  matins,  she  rose  and  went  to  sit  at  the 
window  of  her  cell,  looking  out  upon  the  clear 
and  frosty  winter's  night.  How  the  hours 
passed  till  prime  she  scarcely  knew.  But  at 
a  quarter  to  five,  when  matins  were  over,  she 
went  down  into  the  church  for  first  service, 
[80] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

:sas^rir^>s>fr?gT-fr~s^s?s^ga5^ 

wearing  short  riding-shoes  under  her  white 
robe,  with  her  hair  bound  tight  beneath  her 
coif  and  veil,  for  galloping.  During  the  sim 
ple  prayer-service,  she  got  twenty  penitential 
Aves  for  inattention,  and  read  added  reproof 
in  the  eyes  of  Mere  Piteuse.  At  length,  how 
ever,  it  came  to  be  the  hour  for  the  breaking 
of  the  fast,  and  Laure  found  opportunity  to 
speak  to  the  Soeur  Eloise,  who  was  to  follow 
her  as  attendant  and  protectress  on  the  road 
to  Crepuscule.  Stupid,  stolid,  faithful,  low 
of  birth  and  therefore  much  in  awe  of  Laure, 
was  this  little  nun ;  and  had  the  Mother 
Prioress  been  worldly  wise,  it  had  not  been 
she  that  followed  Laure  into  the  world  this 
bright  and  bitter  January  morning. 

At  a  quarter  to  eight  o'clock  the  two  young 
women  mounted  their  palfreys  at  the  convent 
gate,  and  were  off  into  the  snow-filled  forest, 
while  behind  them  echoed  gentle  admonitions 
to  unceasing  prayer.  Feeling  a  saddle  under 
her  once  again,  and  a  strong  white  horse  bear 
ing  her  along  over  a  well-beaten  road,  Laure 
drew  a  breath  that  seemed  to  have  no  end. 
And  as  her  lungs  filled  with  God's  free  air, 
she  pressed  one  hand  to  her  throat  to  ease  the 
[6]  [81] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

terrible  ache  of  rising  tears.  How  long  it  was 
since  she  had  felt  free  to  move  her  limbs ! 
How  long  since  she  had  traversed  this  shaded 
road  !  Eloise  did  not  trouble  her.  The  lay 
sister  was  too  occupied  in  clinging  to  the  mane 
of  her  horse  to  venture  speech  ;  and  she  looked 
at  her  high-born  companion  with  mingled  awe 
and  admiration  as  she  saw  her  urge  her  beast 
into  a  trot.  The  convent  animal  had  an  easy 
gait,  and  appeared  to  possess  possibilities  in 
the  way  of  speed.  Laure  touched  him  a  little 
with  her  spur.  The  creature  responded  well. 
A  moment  later  Eloise  turned  pale  with  fright 
to  see  her  lady  strike  the  spur  home  in  earnest, 
and  go  flying  wildly  down  the  road  till  she  was 
presently  lost  among  the  thick  snow-laden  trees. 
Laure  was  happy  now.  She  found  herself 
not  much  encumbered  with  her  dress,  which 
had  been  "  modified  "  in  obedience  to  the  law 
for  conduct  outside  the  convent.  Her  gown 
and  mantle  were  of  the  usual  cut,  and  she  was 
girdled  by  her  rosary ;  but  her  head  was  cov 
ered  with  a  close-fitting  black  hood  from  which 
fell  a  short  white  veil,  two  edges  of  which  were 
pinned  beneath  her  chin,  giving  her,  though 
she  did  not  know  it,  a  delightfully  softened 
[82] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

gg--5>ss>g^->fr~s^ss£>sr*s>s 

expression.  After  she  had  left  Eloise  behind, 
she  continued  to  increase  the  speed  of  her 
animal  till  she  had  all  but  lost  control  of  him. 
Fifteen  minutes  later  she  was  out  of  the  forest 
and  running  along  a  heavily  packed  road,  bor 
dered  on  either  side  with  a  thin  line  of  trees, 
beyond  which  stretched  broad  fields  and  moor 
lands,  among  which,  somewhere,  the  priory 
estate  ended  and  that  of  Le  Crepuscule  began. 
Eloise  was  now  a  mile  behind ;  but  Laure  had 
no  thought  for  her.  Her  breath  was  coming 
short  no  less  with  emotion  than  with  the 
exercise ;  for  the  image  of  her  mother  was 
before  her  eyes.  She  let  her  mind  search 
where  it  would,  through  sweet  and  yearning 
depths  ;  and  her  heart  was  filled  with  thanks 
giving  for  this  hour  of  freedom.  She  was 
nearing  that  place  where  the  Rennes  highway 
joined  that  of  St.  Nazaire,  both  of  them  uniting 
at  the  Castle  road,  which  led  to  the  Chateau 
by  a  long  and  winding  ascent.  Presently  the 
Chateau  became  visible ;  and  Laure,  looking  on 
it  with  all  her  soul  in  her  eyes,  took  no  heed 
of  the  slow-moving  horseman  ahead  of  her, 
on  whom  she  was  rapidly  gaining.  Indeed, 
neither  was  aware  of  the  presence  of  the  other, 
[83] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

till  Laure's  horse,  scenting  company,  made  a 
short  dash  of  a  hundred  yards,  and  then  came 
into  a  sudden  walk  beside  the  animal  bestrode 
by  Bertrand  Flammecoeur  of  Provence.  The 
suddenness  of  the  horse's  stop  caused  Laure 
to  jerk  heavily  forward.  Flammecoeur  leaned 
over  and  caught  her  bridle.  At  that  moment 
their  eyes  met. 

A  flush  of  vivid  pink  overspread  Laure's 
lily  face.  She  shrank  quickly  away  from  the 
look  in  Flammecoeur's  eyes.  Then  her  hand 
went  up  to  her  dishevelled  hair  ;  and  she  tried 
confusedly  to  straighten  it  back. 

"Take  not  such  pains,  reverend  lady.  By 
the  glory  of  the  saints,  thou  couldst  not  make 
thyself  as  lovely  as  God's  world  hath  made 
thee  !  —  Prithee,  heed  me  not !  " 

Laure  gave  a  little  gasp  at  the  man's  daring ; 
yet  such  was  Flammecceur's  manner  that  she 
did  not  find  herself  offended.  Presently  she 
had  the  impulse  to  give  him  a  sideways  glance  ; 
and  then,  all  untutored  as  she  was,  she  read  the 
lively  admiration  that  was  written  in  his  face. 
After  that  her  hands  came  down  from  her  head, 
and  she  took  up  her  bridle  again,  by  the  act 
causing  him  to  relinquish  it.  "  The  Soeur 
[84] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

Eloise  is  behind  me.  I  fear  that  I  did  much 
outdistance  her,"  she  said,  with  a  demure- 
ness  through  which  a  smile  was  very  near  to 
breaking. 

Flammecoeur  looked  at  her  with  a  peculiar 
pleasure,  a  pleasure  that  he  had  not  often  ex 
perienced.  His  immediate  impulse  was  to  put 
a  still  greater  distance  between  them  and  Eloise  ; 
but  prudence  came  happily  to  his  aid.  "  Let 
us  stop  here  till  thine  attendant  comes,  while 
thy  horse  breathes,"  he  said,  bringing  his  animal 
to  a  gentle  halt. 

Laure  acquiesced  at  once,  and  did  not  ana 
lyze  her  little  momentary  qualm  as  one  of 
disappointment.  Nevertheless,  her  face  grew 
white  again,  and  she  said  not  a  word  through 
the  ten  minutes  they  had  to  wait  till  Eloise 
came  riding  heavily  out  of  the  wood.  The 
other  nun  looked  infinitely  startled  at  the  sight 
of  Flammecoeur,  and  was  muttering  a  prayer 
while  she  stared  from  Laure  to  the  trouvere. 
As  soon,  however,  as  she  came,  the  others 
reined  their  horses  about,  and  immediately,  in 
the  most  remarkable  silence  that  the  Provencal 
had  ever  experienced,  proceeded  up  the  hill 
and  into  the  Castle  courtyard. 
[85J 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

In  this  wise  they  reached  the  Chateau,  and 
Laure  came  to  her  own  again.  She  found  her 
self  surrounded  by  every  one  and  everything 
that  she  had  so  unspeakably  yearned  for  ;  and 
—  they  made  little  impression  on  her.  She 
walked  among  them  like  one  in  a  dream,  striv 
ing  in  vain  to  free  her  mind  from  its  encom 
passing  mists.  When  she  was  alone  with  her 
mother,  in  Eleanore's  familiar  and  beloved 
room,  Laure  felt  in  herself  an  inexplicable  in 
sincerity.  She  clung  to  madame,  and  wept, 
and  kissed  her,  and  expressed  in  eager,  dis 
jointed  phrases  the  great  joy  she  felt  in  being  at 
home  again ;  and  all  the  while  she  scarce  knew 
what  she  said,  or  wherefore  she  said  it.  And  in 
the  end  she  gave  such  an  impression  of  hysteria 
that  her  mother  became  seriously  distressed. 

At  dinner  Laure's  manner  changed.  She 
was  quiet  and  silent,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
continually  on  her  plate.  Her  cheeks  were 
burning  and  she  was  in  a  tumult  of  inward 
emotion  that  displayed  itself  in  the  most  un 
wonted  stupidity.  Her  mother  never  dreamed 
the  reason  for  her  mood.  Curiously  enough, 
Alixe  read  Laure  better,  though  she  scarcely 
dared  admit  to  herself  that  which  she  saw. 
[86] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

No  look  of  Flammecoeur's,  nor  quick  flush  of 
the  young  nun's  face  escaped  her  eyes,  yet 
neither  then  nor  ever  after  did  Alixe  confess  to 
any  one  what  she  read  ;  for  her  own  heart  was 
too  much  wrought  upon  for  speech. 

Dinner  ended,  and  with  that  end  came  the 
hour  for  Laure's  return  to  the  convent.  The 
girl  realized  this  with  a  chill  at  her  heart,  but 
accepted  the  inevitable  resignedly.  It  was 
with  a  sense  of  desolation  that  she  followed 
Eloise  out  of  the  Castle  to  the  courtyard 
where  their  horses  were  waiting.  Her  parting 
with  her  mother  was  filled  with  grief  of  the  sin- 
cerest  kind.  She  wept  and  clung  to  Madame 
Eleanore,  gasping  out  convulsive  promises  to 
return  as  soon  as  the  rule  permitted.  She 
said  good-bye  to  Alixe  as  tenderly  as  to  her 
mother,  for  the  two  maidens  were  fast  friends ; 
she  kissed  all  the  demoiselles,  was  kissed  by 
the  young  squires-at-arms ;  and  it  was  a  sud 
den  relief  to  her,  in  this  rush  of  home-feeling, 
that  Flammecoeur  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  he 
and  Yvain  having  disappeared  immediately 
after  dinner. 

Much  to  the  satisfaction  of  Eloise,  who  en 
dured  a  good  deal  of  discomfort  when  she  was 
[87] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

in  high  places,  Laure  finally  mounted  her 
palfrey,  and  the  two  of  them  started  away, 
waving  good-byes  all  across  the  courtyard  and 
drawbridge,  and  indeed  until  Eleanore,  leaning 
heavily  on  Alixe's  arm,  turned  to  re-enter  the 
Castle. 

The  nuns  began  their  descent  of  the  long 
hill  at  a  slow,  jogging  trot;  and  presently 
Eloise  remarked  comfortably,  — 

"  Reverend  Mother  enjoined  us  to  repeat 
the  hours  as  we  ride.  But  so  didst  thou 
gallop  on  the  way  hither,  Sister  Angelique, 
and  so  out  of  breath  was  I  with  trotting  after, 
that  I  said  no  more  than  the  first  part  of 
one  Ave.  Therefore  let  us  return  at  a  more 
seemly  pace,  that  we  may  rightly  tell  our 
beads,"  and  the  stolid  sister  settled  her  horse 
into  a  slower  walk,  and  sighed  comprehensively 
as  she  thought  of  the  dinner  she  had  eaten  and 
the  sweetmeats  that  were  hidden  in  her  tunic. 

Laure  did  not  answer  her.  She  fingered 
her  rosary  dutifully,  and  her  lips  mechanically 
repeated  the  prayers.  But  her  thoughts  were 
no  more  on  what  she  said  than  they  were  upon 
food.  Her  face  was  drawn  and  whiter  even 
than  its  wont,  and  she  sat  her  horse  with  a 
[88] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

weary  air.  She  was  making  no  struggle  against 
the  inevitable.  In  her  soul  she  knew  that  she 
must  be  strong  enough  to  endure  her  lot ;  but 
she  could  make  no  pretence  to  herself  that 
that  lot  was  pleasant. 

The  two  were  a  long  time  in  their  descent 
of  the  hill,  and  it  was  mid-afternoon  when  they 
reached  the  bend  in  the  road  that  hid  the 
Chateau  from  sight.  Laure  was  not  looking 
ahead ;  rather,  when  she  looked,  her  eyes 
noticed  nothing.  But  suddenly  Eloise  started 
from  her  prayers  and  uttered  an  exclamation : 
"  Saints  of  God  !  There  is  that  man  again  !  " 

A  quick,  cold  tremor  passed  over  Laure, 
and  she  trembled  violently.  There  in  the 
road,  fifty  yards  away,  both  of  them  on  horse 
back,  were  Flammecceur  and  his  page. 

Eloise  began  a  series  of  weak  and  rapid  ex 
postulations.  Laure  sat  like  a  statue  in  her 
saddle.  Nothing  was  done  till  the  two  young 
women  came  abreast  of  the  troubadour  and 
his  boy.  Then,  with  a  rapid  and  adroit  move 
ment,  young  Yvain  wheeled  his  horse  between 
Laure  and  Eloise,  and  presently  fell  back  with 
Eloise's  animal  beside  him,  while  Bertrand 
Flammecoeur  drew  up  beside  Laure.  The 
[89] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

man  was  white  with  nervousness,  and  he  bent 
toward  her  and  said  in  a  low  voice:  "  Sister  of 
angels,  grant  me  pardon  for  this  act !  " 

Laure  had  gone  all  aflame.  Her  heart  was 
beating  tremulously  and  her  dry  throat  con 
tracted  so  that  she  could  not  speak.  But 
looking,  for  one  fleeting  instant,  into  his  face, 
she  smiled. 

Flammecoeur  could  have  laughed  for  joy, 
for  he  saw  that  his  cause  was  won.  And  the 
ease  of  this  conquest  did  not  make  him  con 
temptuous  of  it ;  for  however  little  he  under 
stood  it,  there  was  that  in  this  childlike  nun 
that  made  him  hold  his  breath  with  reverence 
before  her.  The  hour  that  followed  their 
second  meeting  was  almost  as  new  to  him  as  to 
her,  in  the  stretch  of  emotions.  They  spoke 
very  little.  From  behind  them  came  the  con 
tinual,  droll  chatter  of  Yvain  and  the  answer 
ing  giggles  of  Eloise.  But  Laure  could  not 
have  laughed,  and  the  trouvere  knew  it.  As 
they  entered  the  forest,  however,  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  priory,  he  leaned  far  over 
and  laid  one  of  his  gloved  hands  upon  the 
tunic  that  covered  her  knee. 

"  Let  me  have  some  gage,  —  some  token 
[90] 


r 


•HE  whole   Castle    had   assembled   to  say 
Godspeed  to  their  departing  lord. — Page  25 


FLAMMECCEUR 


of  thee,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  and  unsteady 
tone. 

"  I  cannot  !     Oh,  I  cannot !  " 

He  did  not  urge,  but  resignedly  drew  his 
hand  away;  and  as  Laure's  body  made  the 
little,  involuntary  movement  of  following  him, 
he  contained  his  joy  with  an  effort. 

Now  the  white  priory  was  visible  from  afar, 
among  the  leafless  trees ;  and  so  Laure,  rein 
ing  in  her  horse,  turned  to  her  companion  : 
"  Thou  must  leave  us  at  once,"  she  whispered, 
trembling. 

He  bent  his  head,  and  drew  his  horse  to 
a  standstill.  At  the  same  time  Yvain  and 
Eloise  rode  up,  having  just  pledged  themselves 
to  eternal  devotion.  After  a  moment's  hesita 
tion,  Flammecreur  leaned  again  toward  Laure, 
asking,  this  time  fearfully, — 

"  Wilt  thou  tell  me,  lady,  in  what  part  of 
the  convent  is  thy  cell  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering,  but  answered 
what  he  wanted,  and  then  waited,  in  silence, 
praying  that  he  would  ask  another  question. 
He  sat,  however,  with  his  head  bent  over  so 
that  she  could  not  see  his  face,  and  he  said 
nothing  more.  Laure  sighed,  looked  up  into 
[91] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

the  wintry  sky,  looked  down  to  the  snow- 
covered  earth,  felt  the  pall  of  her  frozen  life 
closing  around  her  once  again,  and  then  got 
a  sudden,  blind  determination  that  that  life 
should  not  smother  the  little,  creeping  flame 
that  had  to-day  been  lighted  in  her  heart. 
Looking  sidewise  at  Flammecreur,  who  sat 
bowed  upon  his  horse,  she  whispered,  — 

"  Shall  we  —  see  —  each  other  yet  again  ?  " 

"  By  all  the  saints  —  and  God  —  we  shall  ! 
We  shall  !  " 

"  Alas,  Angelique,  we  are  late  for  vespers  ! 
Haste ! "  cried  Eloise,  in  the  same  moment. 

Laure  sent  the  spur  into  her  palfrey,  which 
leaped  forward  like  the  stone  from  a  sling. 
Eloise  followed  after  her  at  a  terrifying  pace, 
and  the  troubadour  and  his  page  stood  and 
watched  them  till  they  were  lost  among  the 
trees.  The  two  reached  the  priory  gate  al 
most  together  ;  and  before  they  were  admitted, 
Eloise,  her  face  flushed  and  her  eyes  shining, 
whispered  imploringly  to  Laure :  "  Confess  it 
not !  Confess  it  not !  Else  shall  we  never  go 
again  ! " 

To  this  plea  Laure  had  no  time  to  make 
reply ;  but  the  other,  seeing  her  manner,  had, 
[92] 


FLAMMECCEUR 

somehow,  no  fear  that  she  would  betray  her 
self,  and  with  her  the  delicious  love-prattlings 
of  Yvain. 

They  found  vespers  just  at  an  end,  and 
were  reproved  for  their  tardy  return.  Eloise 
retreated  to  her  cell  at  once,  to  repeat  her  peni 
tential  Aves  of  the  morning,  and  Laure  retired 
ostensibly  for  the  same  purpose. 

Once  alone  in  her  cell,  the  young  girl  took 
off  her  riding-garments,  —  the  unusual  cap  and 
veil,  boots,  gloves,  and  spur,  —  and  put  them 
carefully  away  in  her  oaken  chest.  Afterwards 
she  straightened  her  bliault  and  her  hair,  set  her 
image  of  the  Virgin  straight  upon  its  shelf,  and 
moved  the  priedieu  a  little  more  accurately 
between  the  door  and  her  bed.  Then,  stand 
ing  up,  she  looked  about  her.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  do.  She  was  alone  with  her 
heart,  and  she  could  no  longer  escape  from 
thinking.  So  she  sat  down  on  the  bed,  folded 
her  hands  upon  her  knees,  and  in  this  wise 
twisted  out  the  meaning  of  her  day,  till  she 
found  in  her  secret  soul  that  the  unspeakable, 
the  unholy,  the  most  glorious,  had  come  to 
her,  to  fill  the  great  void  of  her  empty  life. 

[93] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

THE    PASSION 


N  the  evening  of  the  day  of 
that  momentous  visit,  after 
compline  was  over,  and  she 
was  in  her  bed  in  her  cell, 
Laure  yielded  herself  up  to 
sleep  only  after  a  rebellious 
struggle ;  she  wished  intensely  to  lie  awake 
with  her  wonderful  thoughts.  Sleep  prevailed, 
however,  and  was  sound  and  dreamless  ;  for 
she  was  physically  tired  out. 

At  two  in  the  morning  came  the  first  boom 
of  the  church  bell  pulled  by  the  sleep-laden 
sexton,  —  the  beginning  of  the  call  to  matins. 
The  night  was  very  black ;  and  only  after 
two  or  three  minutes  did  Laure  struggle  up 
from  her  bed,  trembling  with  that  dead,  numb 
feeling  that  results  from  being  roused  too  sud 
denly  from  heavy  unconsciousness.  Mechani- 
[94] 


THE    PASSION 

cally  the  young  girl  felt  about  for  her  lantern 
and  opened  the  door  into  the  dimly  lit  corridor. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  nuns  and  novices 
grouped  about  the  stone  lamp  which  burned  all 
night  on  the  wall,  and  from  which  the  sisters 
were  accustomed  to  light  their  cressets  for 
matins.  Laure  waited  her  turn  in  a  dazed 
manner,  and  when  she  had  obtained  the  light, 
went  back  to  her  cell,  left  the  door  unclosed 
according  to  rule,  and,  placing  the  lantern  on 
the  small  table,  knelt  at  her  priedieu. 

So  far  her  every  move  had  been  mechani 
cal.  Her  brain  was  not  yet  awake.  But,  with 
the  first  words  of  the  Agnus  Dei,  the  full  mem 
ory  of  yesterday  suddenly  flashed  upon  her. 
She  had  been  at  home,  and  had  found  there 
Flammecoeur!  —  Flammecoeur!  Her  own  heart 
flamed  up,  and  the  prayer  died  away  from  it. 
Her  lips  moved  on,  and  the  murmur  of  her 
voice  continued  to  swell  the  low  chorus  that 
spread  through  the  whole  priory.  But  Laure 
was  not  speaking  those  words.  Her  whole 
mind  and  heart  had  turned  irrevocably  to 
another  subject,  —  to  another  god,  the  little, 
rosy-winged  boy  that  finds  his  way  into  the 
sternest  places,  and  lights  them  with  his  magic 
[95] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

presence  till  they  are  changed  for  their  inhab 
itants  beyond  recognition.  Strictly  speaking, 
Laure  was  not  thinking  of  the  trouvere.  Her 
thoughts  refused  to  review  him  in  the  light  of 
her  knowledge  of  him.  She  would  not  think 
of  his  personality,  —  his  face,  eyes,  form,  or 
manner.  Her  heart  shrank  from  anything  so 
bold.  She  refused  to  question  herself.  Yet 
her  mind  was  full  of  him,  and  the  other  subject 
in  her  thoughts  was  this :  that  in  eleven  days 
more,  were  God  pitying  to  her,  she  should, 
perhaps  —  ever  perhaps  —  see  him  again. 

When  matins  and  lauds  were  over,  the 
sisters  returned  to  bed  till  the  hour  for  dress 
ing,  a  quarter  to  five.  Laure  was  accustomed 
to  sleep  soundly  through  this  period.  But  to 
day  she  refused  to  close  her  eyes.  Nay,  it 
was  ecstasy  to  her  to  lie  dreaming  of  many  old, 
vague  things  that  had  scarce  any  connection 
with  her  new  heart,  and  yet  would  have  had 
no  place  at  all  with  her  had  they  not  carried 
as  an  undercurrent  the  image  of  that  same 
new  god. 

All  day  Laure  went  about  with  a  song  in 
her  soul.  Why  she  should  have  been  glad, 
who  can  say  ?  What  possible  hope  for  happi- 
[96] 


THE    PASSION 

ness  there  was  for  her,  what  idea  of  any 
finale  save  one  of  grief,  resignation,  or  despair, 
she  never  thought  to  ask  herself.  She  let  her 
new  happiness  take  possession  of  her  without 
stopping  to  analyze  it.  And  it  was  as  well 
that  she  did  no  analyzing.  For  a  logical  pro 
cess  would  inevitably  have  brought  her  to  the 
beginning  of  these  things,  to  the  moment,  the 
ineffable  moment,  when  the  hand  of  Flamme- 
cceur  had  first  rested  on  her  own. 

This  first  morning  passed  away.  Dinner 
was  eaten,  and  recreation  time  came.  Now 
Eloise  persistently  sought  Laure's  company  ; 
and  Laure,  with  equal  persistence  and  quite 
remarkable  adroitness,  avoided  her.  The 
young  nun  knew,  from  the  face  of  Eloise, 
that  there  were  a  thousand  silly  thoughts 
ready  to  come  out  of  her ;  and  Laure  could 
not  bear  to  have  her  own  delicate,  rainbow 
dreams  so  crudely  disturbed.  And  there  was 
something  more  about  the  presence  of  Eloise 
that  disturbed  the  daughter  of  Le  Crepuscule ; 
this  was  the  understanding  between  them  that 
they  should  not  confess  the  real  reason  for 
their  tardy  arrival  on  the  previous  day. 
Laure  had  made  up  her  mind,  tacitly,  to 

~    in  [  97  j 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

confess  nothing — yet.     But  she  did  not  like 
to  be  reminded  of  the  fact. 

That  night  Laure  successfully  resisted  the 
dictates  of  sleep,  with  the  result  that,  all 
next  day,  she  felt  dull  and  weak.  When 
dinner  and  sext  were  over,  and  recreation 
came,  she  obtained  ready  permission  to  retire 
to  her  cell  instead  of  going  to  the  garden 
or  the  court  or  the  library  with  the  other 
nuns.  Once  alone  and  safe  from  the  attacks 
of  Eloise,  who  was  becoming  importunate,  she 
lay  down  on  her  bed  and  sank,  almost  at 
once,  to  rest.  While  she  slept,  the  sun 
came  out  upon  the  outer  world,  and  poured 
its  beams  over  the  chill  valley  beyond  the 
priory.  The  gray,  lowering  clouds  were 
broken  up.  The  heavens  shone  blue,  and 
the  ice-crust  shimmered  with  myriad,  spark 
ling  diamonds.  No  sunlight  could  enter  the 
cell  of  sleep ;  for  it  was  afternoon,  and  the 
single  little  window  looked  toward  the  east. 
But  after  nearly  an  hour  of  shining  stillness, 
there  came  a  sound  from  the  frozen  vale  that 
was  more  beautiful  than  sunlight.  It  reached 
Laure's  ears,  and  woke  her.  She  rose  up, 
hearkening  incredulously  for  a  moment,  and 
[98] 


THE    PASSION 

g^ ;r^~-c~<rx 

then,  with  a  smothered  cry  of  delight,  threw 
herself  forward  again  on  the  bed,  and  laughed 
and  moaned  together  into  the  cold  sheets. 

From  below,  just  outside  her  window,  rose 
a  voice,  a  tenor  voice,  high  and  clear  and 
mellow,  singing  a  chanson  of  the  south  to 
the  accompaniment  of  a  six-stringed  lute. 
After  a  few  seconds  Laure  ventured  to  raise 
her  head  and  listen.  With  a  thrill  of  ecstasy 
she  caught  the  words,  — 

"  Ele  ot  plain  le  visage,  si  fu  encolorez  ; 
Les  iex  vairs  et  riant 's,  lone  et  trait  its  le  nez  ; 
La  boucbe  vermeillete,  le  menton  forcel'e  ,• 
Le  col  plain  et  b lane  plus  que  n'est  flor  de  pre." 

At  this  point  in  the  familiar  song,  sung 
with  a  fervor  she  had  never  dreamed  of, 
Laure  rose  involuntarily  from  the  bed,  and, 
redder  than  any  flower,  stole  to  the  window. 
Timidly,  her  heart  beating  so  that  she  was 
like  to  choke,  she  looked  out  into  the  snowy 
clearing.  Just  beneath  her,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  wall,  so  close  that  a  whisper  from 
him  might  easily  have  been  heard,  stood 
Flammecceur. 

He  was  scanning  closely  the  row  of  cell 
windows  above  him,  hoping  against  hope  for 
[99J 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

a  sight  of  Laure's  face.  Ignorant  as  he  was 
of  convent  hours,  he  knew  that  he  had  but 
the  barest  chance  of  making  her  hear ;  and 
that  there  was  less  than  this  chance  of  seeing 
her.  Thus  when  Laure's  face,  framed  in  its 
soft  white  veil,  looked  out  to  him,  Flamme- 
coeur  experienced  a  rush  of  emotion  that  was 
overpowering.  She  inspired  him  with  a  rever 
ence  that  he  had  not  known  he  could  feel  for 
any  woman.  Her  face  was  so  glorified  in  his 
eyes  that  she  looked  like  an  image  of  the  Holy 
Virgin.  Breaking  off  in  the  middle  of  the 
song,  he  fell  upon  his  knees  there  in  the 
snow,  uttering  incoherent  and  indistinguish 
able  phrases  of  adoration. 

Flammecceur  was  theatrical  enough ;  also 
he  was  hard,  utterly  unscrupulous,  and  a 
scoffer  at  holy  things.  His  only  idol  was 
his  love  for  beauty.  This  was  his  religion, 
and  he  had  worshipped  it  consistently  from 
boyhood.  Now  he  had  found  its  almost 
perfect  embodiment  in  this  girl,  in  whom 
innocence,  purity,  youth,  and  beauty  were  in 
extricably  mingled.  And  Flammecoeur  strove 
to  adjust  his  rather  callous  spirit  to  hers, 
feeling  that  he  would  sooner  breathe  his  last 
[100] 


THE    PASSION 


than  shock  her  delicacy  —  till  he  had  attained 
his  end. 

Now,  in  the  dying  sunlight,  the  two  talked 
together ;  and  in  the  light  of  his  new  rever 
ence  the  young  nun  lost  a  little  of  her  timid 
ity  and  made  open  confession  in  her  looks, 
though  never  in  her  words,  of  her  delight  in 
his  presence. 

"  Tell  me,  O  Maiden  of  Angels,"  he  said, 
addressing  her  in  a  term  that  at  once  brought 
them  both  a  sense  of  familiarity  and  of  pleas 
ure,  "  tell  me,  is  this  thy  regular  hour  of  soli 
tude  ?  Could  I  —  might  I  hope —  to  see  thee 
often  here  —  hold  speech  with  thee  —  without 
endangering  thy  devotions  ?  " 

"  Nay,  verily  !  "  whispered  Laure,  hastily. 
"  Oh,  thou  must  not  come  !  Nay,  I  am  sup 
posed  to  be  with  the  other  sisters  at  this 
hour  of  recreation.  Only  to-day  was  I  per 
mitted —  " 

"  And  didst  thou  think  of  me  ?  Hopedst 
thou  I  would  come  ?  Didst  think  —  " 

"  Monsieur !  "  Laure's  tone  was  reproachful 
and  embarrassed. 

"  Forgive  me  !     Though  verily  I  know  not 
how  I  have  offended  thee  !  " 
[  101  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Laure  was  about  to  utter  her  reproach  when 
suddenly,  around  the  corner  of  the  wall,  ap 
peared  the  head  of  Flammecoeur's  horse.  All 
at  once,  at  this  apparition,  the  old  spirit  of 
freedom  and  the  old  love  of  liberty  rushed 
over  her.  "  Ah,  would  that  I  might  leap  down 
there  into  the  snow,  and  mount  with  thee  thy 
steed,  and  ride,  and  ride,  and  ride  back  to  my 
home  in  Le  Crepuscule  !  "  she  cried  out,  utterly 
forgetful  of  herself  and  of  her  position. 

Instantly  Flammecceur  seized  her  mood. 
"  By  all  the  saints,  come  on  !  "  he  cried.  "  I 
will  catch  thee  in  mine  arms  ;  and  we  will  ride  ! 
We  will  ride  and  ride —  not  back  —  " 

"  Alas  !  Now  Heaven  forgive  me  !  What 
have  I  said?  Farewell,  monsieur!  Indeed, 
farewell ! " 

And  ere  Flammecoeur  could  grasp  her  sud 
den  revulsion  of  feeling,  she  was  gone  ;  the 
window  above  him  was  empty.  He  stayed 
where  he  was  for  some  moments,  meditating 
on  what  plea  would  be  successful.  Finally, 
deciding  silence  the  surer  part,  he  remounted 
his  horse  and  turned  slowly  to  the  west,  through 
the  chill  evening,  doing  battle  with  himself. 
He  found  that  he  was  unable  to  cope  with  the 
[102] 


THE    PASSION 

flame  that  this  pretty  nun  had  kindled  in  his 
brain.  His  anger  rose  against  her,  to  be  once 
more  overtopped  by  passion.  And  had  he 
not  been  so  occupied  in  trying  to  regain  suffi 
cient  self-control  to  make  some  safe  plan  of 
action,  he  might  have  known  himself  for  the 
knave  he  surely  was. 

In  the  priory  three  days  went  prayerfully 
by ;  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  Laure  found 
herself  sick  with  misery.  Flammecoeur  had 
laid  hold  of  her  heart,  and  her  struggles  against 
the  thought  of  him  began  to  grow  stronger; 
for  she  longed  to  escape  from  her  present  state 
of  madness.  Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  she 
never  had,  in  connection  with  him,  one  single 
tainted  thought.  Laure  was  a  peculiarly  in 
nocent  girl,  —  innocent  even  of  any  unshaped 
desire  or  longing.  The  force  of  her  nature 
had  always  found  relief  in  physical  activity. 
In  her  home  life  all  things  had  been  clean  and 
free  before  her.  And  in  the  convent  the  teach 
ing  that  emotion  was  sin  had  been  accepted  by 
her  without  thought.  Nevertheless,  in  her,  all 
unwaked,  there  lay  a  broad,  passionate  nature 
that  needed  but  a  quickening  touch  to  throw 
her  into  such  depths  as,  were  she  taken  un- 
[  103] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

awares,  would  eventually  drag  her  to  her  doom. 
Her  ignorance  was  pitiable ;  and  even  now  she 
had  entered  alone  upon  a  dark  stretch  of  road, 
the  end  of  which  she  did  not  herself  know, 
and  which  none  could  prophesy  to  her. 

Three  days  of  unhappiness,  of  battle  with 
herself,  and  of  longing  for  a  sight  of  Flamme- 
coeur,  and  then  —  he  came.  Again  it  was  the 
recreation  hour,  and  Laure  was  in  the  garden, 
walking  in  the  cold  with  one  or  two  of  the  sis 
ters.  Her  thoughts  had  strayed  from  the  gen 
eral  chatter,  and  her  eyes,  like  her  mind,  looked 
afar  off.  Her  companions,  rather  accustomed 
to  Angelique's  vagaries,  paid  little  attention  to 
her,  and  she  pursued  her  reverie  uninterrupted. 
Suddenly,  from  out  of  the  snowy  stillness,  a 
sound  reached  her  ears.  For  an  instant  her 
heart  ceased  to  beat ;  and  she  halted  in  her  walk. 
Yes,  Flammecoeur  was  singing,  somewhere  near. 
It  was  the  same  chanson,  and  it  came  from 
the  other  side  of  the  priory.  He  must  be 
where  he  had  been  before.  She  looked  at  the 
faces  of  the  nuns  beside  her.  Did  they  not 
also  hear?  How  dull,  how  intensely  dull  they 
were  !  She  went  on  for  a  few  steps  unde 
cidedly.  Then  she  halted. 
[104] 


THE    PASSION 


"  I  had  forgot,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  must 
to  my  cell.  I  have  five  Aves  to  repeat  for  in 
attention  at  the  reading  of  St.  Elizabeth  this 
morning." 

"  Methought  they  were  to  be  said  in  chap 
ter,"  observed  one  of  her  companions,  indif 
ferently. 

"  Nay ;  Reverend  Mother  gave  permis 
sion, —  in  my  cell,"  answered  Laure,  rather 
weakly  ;  for  she  saw  that  she  should  get  into 
difficulty  if  any  one  mentioned  this  matter 
again.  However,  Flammecoeur's  voice  was 
singing  still  and,  flinging  care  to  the  winds, 
she  made  a  hasty  escape. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  she  was  in  the  church, 
kneeling  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Joseph.  She 
said  twenty  Aves  there  before  she  rose,  yet  got 
no  comfort  from  them.  For  twenty  Aves  is 
small  salve  to  the  conscience  for  the  first  guilty 
deceit  of  one's  life. 

That  evening  was  not  wholly  a  pleasant  one; 
yet  Laure  underwent  fierce  gusts  of  happiness. 
She  had  seen  him  again ;  she  had  held  speech 
with  him,  and  had  smiled  when  he  looked  at 
her.  She  felt  his  looks  like  caresses,  and  was 
half  ashamed  and  half  enamoured  of  them. 
[105] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

r-S-«5^--F;--"=:'-^^g>35^F~?^-fre^ 

Her  night  was  filled  with  a  tumult  of  dreams ; 
and  when  day  dawned  again  she  was  hot  with 
the  fever  of  unrest. 

Days  went  by,  and  then  weeks,  and  finally 
two  months,  and  March  was  on  the  world. 
Hints  of  spring  were  borne  down  the  breeze. 
The  deeply  frozen  earth  began  slowly,  slowly 
to  throw  off  its  weight  of  ice,  and  to  open  its 
breast  to  the  warm  touches  of  the  sun.  The 
black,  bare  branches  of  the  forest  trees  waved 
about  uncannily,  like  gaunt  arms,  beckoning 
to  the  distant  summer.  And  in  all  this  time 
the  situation  of  the  little  nun  of  Crepuscule 
had  not  changed.  The  troubadour  still  lin 
gered  at  the  Chateau,  a  welcome  guest.  And 
still  he  haunted  the  priory,  unknown  to  any 
one  save  her  whom  he  continually  sought.  As 
yet  he  had  done  nothing,  said  not  one  word 
that  betrayed  his  intentions.  He  had  waited 
patiently  till  the  time  should  be  ripe;  and  now 
that  time  approached.  Laure  had  endured  a 
life  of  secret  torture,  but  had  not  succeeded  in 
throwing  off  the  shackles  she  had  voluntarily 
put  on.  Nay,  she  confessed  now  to  herself 
that,  without  his  occasional  coming,  she  could 
not  have  lived.  She  chafed  at  their  restricted 
[106] 


THE    PASSION 


intercourse.  She  longed  to  meet  him  where  she 
could  put  her  hands  into  his,  where  she  could 
listen  to  the  sound  of  his  voice  without  the 
terror  of  discovery.  All  this  Flam mecosur  had 
read  in  her,  but  still  he  waited  till  of  her  own 
accord  she  should  break  her  bonds. 

There  came  a  day  in  March  when  the  two, 
Laure  and  Flammecoeur,  with  Eloise  and  her 
now  very  bel  ami,  Yvain,  were  riding  from 
Crepuscule  to  the  priory.  As  they  went,  the 
spring  sun  sent  its  beams  aslant  across  the  road  ; 
and  birds,  newly  arrived  from  the  far  south, 
were  site-hunting  among  the  black  trees.  The 
air  was  filled  with  the  chilly  sweetness  that  made 
one  dizzy  with  dreams  of  coming  summer ;  and 
both  Laure  and  the  trouvere  grew  slowly  in 
toxicated  as  they  rode  side  by  side,  so  close 
that  his  knee  touched  her  palfrey's  flank. 
Behind  them,  Yvain  and  Eloise  were  still 
discussing  their  love-notions.  The  afternoon 
was  misty  with  approaching  sunset.  In  the 
radiant  golden  light,  Laure's  heart  grew  big 
with  unshed  tears  of  life ;  and  before  the  sobs 
came,  Flammecoeur,  leaning  far  toward  her, 
whispered  thickly, — 

"  Thou  must  come  to  me  alone  !  I  must 
[  107  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

have  thee  alone.  I  must  know  thy  lips.  'Fore 
God,  refuse  me  not,  thou  greatly  beloved ! " 

Laure  drew  a  long,  shivering  breath  and 
looked  slowly  into  his  face.  Her  eyes  rested 
full  upon  his,  and  she  did  not  speak,  but  he 
read  her  reply. 

"  Where  shall  I  come  to-night  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To-night !  " 

"  Assuredly.  To-night.  Dieu !  Thinkest 
thou  that  I  can  stand  aloof  from  thee  forever  ? 
Thinkest  thou  my  blood  is  water  in  my  veins  ? 
To-night !  " 

Laure  mused  a  little,  her  eyes  looking  afar 

off,  as  if  she  dreamed.     She  brought  them  back 

to  him  with  a  start.     "  To-night  —  by  starlight 

—  in  the  convent  garden.     Canst  thou  climb 

the  wall?" 

"  Ah  !  thou  shalt  see  !  " 

Laure's  heart  palpitated  with  the  look  he 
gave  her,  and  she  sat  silent  under  it,  while,  bit 
by  bit,  all  her  training,  all  her  year  of  precepts, 
all  herself,  her  womanhood,  her  truth,  her 
steadfastness  to  righteousness,  slipped  away 
from  her  under  the  spell  of  this  most  powerful 
of  all  emotions.  And  presently  she  turned  to 
him  again  with  such  an  expression  of  exalta- 
[108] 


THE    PASSION 


tion  in  her  poor  face,  that   his  heart  warmed 
to  her  with  a  tenderer  feeling. 

"  At  what  hour  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  One  hour  after  the  last  tolling  of  the  bell 
at  compline  after  confession." 

"  Confession  !  "  the  word  slipped  from  him 
before  he  thought.  He  saw  Laure  turn  first 
scarlet  and  then  very  white ;  and  her  lips 
trembled. 

"  Ah,  Laure,  most  beloved,  heed  it  not ! 
If  there  be  any  sin  in  loving  as  we  love,  lay 
it  all  on  me.  For  on  my  soul,  I  would  leave 
heaven  itself  gladly  behind  for  thee  !  And 
since  God  created  thee  as  lovely  as  thou  art, 
wert  thou  not  made  to  be  beloved  ?  Look, 
Laure !  see  the  gray  bird  there  among  the 
trees  !  Behold,  it  is  the  bird  of  the  Saint 
Esprit!  It  is  an  omen.  It  is  our  heavenly 
sign ;  therefore  be  not  afraid." 

And  as  Laure  promised  him,  so  she  did. 
She  understood  so  well  how  the  Flaming-heart 
wanted  to  be  alone  with  her :  did  she  not  also 
long  for  solitude  with  him?  And  if  they  were 
alone  for  one  hour,  God  was  above.  He  saw 
and  He  knew  all  things.  Why,  then,  should 
she  be  afraid  ? 

[  109  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


Therefore  Laure  went  to  her  cell  that  night 
with  her  soul  unshriven,  and  a  heavy  weight 
upon  it  of  mingled  joy  and  pain.  Lying  fully 
dressed  upon  her  bed,  she  heard  the  great  bell 
boom  out  the  close  of  another  day  of  praise  to 
God.  And  when  the  last  vibration  had  died 
down  the  wind,  and  the  sexton  had  wended  her 
pious  way  to  bed,  Laure  rose,  and  prepared  her 
self  to  go  out  into  the  garden.  All  that  she 
had  to  do  was  to  wrap  herself  in  her  mantle 
and  to  cover  her  head  with  a  hood  and  veil. 
But  first,  following  an  instinct  of  dormant  con 
science,  she  unwound  the  rosary  from  her  waist 
and  hung  it  on  the  rail  of  the  priedieu,  before 
which  she  had  not  prayed  to-night.  Then  she 
sat  down  upon  her  bed  and  waited,  —  waited 
through  centuries,  through  ages,  till  it  seemed 
to  her  that  dawn  must  be  about  to  break.  But 
she  felt  that  should  she  reach  the  garden  before 
the  coming  of  Flammecoeur,  her  heart  would 
fail  indeed.  During  this  time  she  refused  to 
allow  herself  to  think,  though  she  was  very  cold 
and  continued  to  tremble.  Finally,  when  her 
nerves  would  stay  her  no  longer,  she  rose  and 
left  her  cell.  The  convent  was  open  before 
her.  The  nuns  were  all  asleep.  Her  sandalled 
[110] 


THE    PASSION 


feet  made  no  noise  upon  the  stones,  and  she 
passed  in  safety  through  corridors  and  rooms 
till  she  reached  the  library,  from  which  there 
was  an  open  exit  to  the  garden. 

In  the  doorway  she  paused  and  looked  out 
upon  the  pale  moonlit  scene.  Her  heart  was 
beating  quite  steadily  now,  and  she  was  able  to 
consider  almost  with  calmness  the  possibility 
that  she  was  early.  The  light  from  the  half- 
moon  fell  upon  her  where  she  stood,  and  sud 
denly  she  beheld  a  dark-cloaked  figure  run 
out  of  the  shrubbery  by  the  northwestern  wall 
and  come  hurrying  toward  her.  At  the  same 
moment  she  herself  started  forward,  half  fear 
fully.  A  moment  later  she  was  caught  in 
Flammecceur's  arms,  and  a  rain  of  kisses  beat 
down  upon  her  face. 

Gasping,  crimson,  horrified,  she  tore  herself 
away  from  the  embrace  with  the  strength  of 
one  outraged. 

"  Stop  !  In  God's  name,  stop  !  Wouldst 
do  me  dishonor?  "  she  cried  out,  in  an  anger 
that  bordered  upon  tears. 

"  Dishonor  !  Mon  Dieu  !  wherefore,  pri 
thee,  earnest  thou  into  this  garden,  then  ? 
Was  it  to  stand  here  in  this  doorway  and  per- 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

mit  me  to  scream  my  devotion  at  thee  from 
yonder  wall  ?  " 

•In  her  nervousness  Laure  suddenly  laughed. 
But  she  was  forced  back  to  gravity,  as  he 
went  on  with  a  sudden  rush  of  passion,  — 

"  Laure,  Laure,  is  it  thy  intent  to  drive  me 
mad  ?  Faith,  what  man  would  forbear  as  I 
have  forborne  with  thee  ?  Thinkest  thou  any 
one  would  wait  for  weeks,  nay,  months,  as 
I  have  waited,  and  feel  thee  at  last  free  and  in 
his  arms,  to  be  instantly  thrust  away  again  ? 
Nay,  by  my  soul !  Thou  art  here,  and  thou 
art  mine,  and  I  have  much  to  ask  of  thee. 
Christ  !  Thine  eyes  !  Thy  hair  !  Laure, 
I  shall  bear  thee  away  from  this  prison-house. 
I  will  have  thee  for  all  mine  own.  Thou  must 
leave  thy  cell  by  night,  and  come  to  me  here. 
Outside  the  wall  Yvain  will  wait  with  horses  ; 
and  we  will  ride  away  —  ride  like  hounds  — 
out  of  this  land  of  tears,  southward,  into  the 
country  of  freedom  and  roses  and  love  !  There 
we  shall  dwell  together,  thou  and  I  —  thou  and 
I  —  Laure,  Laure,  my  sweet  !  And  who  in 
all  God's  earth  before  hath  known  such  joy  as 
we  shall  know !  Answer  me,  Laure,  answer 
me  !  Say  thou  'It  come  !  " 
[112] 


THE    PASSION 

ESSSSS5SSS^SiS2SSiSS=S 

Once  again  he  took  her  m  his  arms,  but 
more  calmly  now,  the  force  of  his  passion 
having  spent  itself  in  words  but  half  articu 
late.  And  now  he  perceived  how  she  was 
all  trembling  and  afraid  ;  and  so  he  soothed 
her  with  gentle  phrases  and  tender  caresses, 
for  indeed  Flammecoeur  loved  this  maid  as 
truly  as  it  was  in  him  to  love  at  all.  And 
it  seemed  to  him  a  joy  to  have  the  protecting 
of  her. 

"  Speak  to  me,  answer  me,  greatly  beloved," 
he  insisted,  drawing  her  face  up  to  his. 

Laure  clung  to  him  and  wept,  and  did  not 
speak.  All  that  followed  was  but  a  confusion 
of  kisses,  of  pleadings,  of  tears  and  restraints, 
to  both  of  them ;  and  presently  Laure  was 
struggling  from  his  arms  and  crying  to  him 
that  it  was  near  matins,  and  she  must  go. 
Once  again,  and  finally,  Flammecceur  demanded 
a  reply  to  his  plea.  There  was  hesitation, 
doubting,  evident  desire,  and  very  evident 
fear.  Then,  staking  everything,  he  urged  her 
thus,  — 

"  Listen,  Laure.  I  would  not  have  thee 
decide  all  things  now  in  thy  mind.  In  one 
week  I  will  be  here,  as  to-night,  at  the  same 
~  {«]  [113] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

hour,  in  this  place ;  and  all  things  will  be  pre 
pared  for  our  flight.  If  thou  come  to  me  be 
fore  the  matins  bell  rings  out,  all  will  be  well, 
and  we  shall  go  forth  together  into  heaven. 
If  thou  come  not, —  why,  I  have  tarried  far 
too  long  in  this  Bretagne,  and  Yvain  and  I 
will  go  on  together  into  the  world,  and  thou 
shalt  see  me  no  more  forever.  Fair  choice  and 
honorable  I  give  thee,  for  that  I  love  thee  bet 
ter  than  myself.  Now  fare  thee  well,  lady  of 
my  heart's  delight.  God  in  His  sweet  mercy 
give  thee  into  my  keeping  !  " 

With  a  final  kiss  he  put  her  from  him  and 
saw  her  go ;  and  then  he  threw  himself  over 
the  wall,  and  set  out  on  his  return  ride  to  the 
Castle  by  the  sea. 

Laure  descended  to  prime  next  morning, 
trembling  for  fear  of  unknown  possibilities. 
But  no  one  in  the  church  saw  her  muddy  san 
dals  ;  and  her  skirts  and  mantle  were  not  more 
soiled  round  the  bottom  than  was  customary 
with  those  nuns  that  took  their  recreation  in 
the  garden.  By  the  time  the  breaking  of  the 
fast  occurred,  she  was  reassured,  and  felt  her 
self  safe  from  the  consequences  of  her  night. 
Then,  and  only  then,  did  she  turn  her  mind  to 
[114] 


THE    PASSION 

the   choice   that    she    must    make    during    the 
ensuing  sennight. 

That  week  was  one  of  terror  by  night  and 
woe  by  day.  Hourly  she  resolved  to  renounce 
forever  all  thoughts  of  the  flesh,  confess  her 
sin,  and  remain  true  to  the  convent  for  life. 
For  the  first  three  days  these  renewals  of  faith 
made  her  strong  and  stronger.  She  wept  and 
she  prayed  and  she  hoped  for  strength ;  and 
finally  she  began  to  believe  that  the  Devil  was 
beaten.  And  yet  —  and  yet — she  did  not 
even  now  confess  the  story  of  her  acquaintance 
with  Flammecffiur.  She  said  to  herself  that 
she  would  win  this  last  fight  alone;  but  she 
did  not  seek  to  find  if  there  was  self-deception 
in  that  excuse.  No  one  but  the  girl  Eloise 
had  any  idea  that  there  existed  such  a  person 
as  the  trouvere ;  and  Eloise  was  unaware  that 
Soeur  Angelique  had  ever  seen  that  gallant  gen 
tleman  save  when  she  and  Yvain  were  present. 
Moreover,  the  stupid  one  was  becoming  alarmed 
lest  the  sudden  devotional  fervor  of  Demoi 
selle  Angelique  should  lead  to  the  cessation  of 
those  meetings  for  which  her  vague  soul  so 
impiously  thirsted.  The  rest  of  the  sisters 
perceived  Laure's  extra  prayers  and  rigorous 
[115] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

fasting  with  admiration  and  approval,  and  put 
them  down  to  one  of  those  sudden  rushes  of 
fervor  to  which  young  nuns  were  peculiarly 
subject. 

After  three  days  of  this  devotional  effort,  the 
Devil  widened  his  little  wedge  of  temptation,  and 
roused  in  her  an  overpowering  desire  to  see  her 
lover  again.  By  now  she  had  lost  her  shame 
at  the  first  hot  kiss  ever  laid  upon  her  lips,  and 
—  alas,  poor  humanity  !  —  was  longing  secretly 
for  more.  So  long,  however,  as  Flamrnecoeur 
was  still  in  Le  Crepuscule,  she  believed  that  she 
could  endure  everything.  But  she  knew  that 
after  four  days  he  would  be  there  no  more ; 
and  if  she  let  her  chance  go,  it  was  the  last  she 
should  ever  have.  Then  her  mind  strayed  to 
the  after-picture  of  her  life  here  in  the  nunnery  ; 
and  at  the  thought  her  heart  grew  numb  and 
cold.  Yet  still  she  fought  and  prayed,  trust 
ing  to  no  one  her  weight  of  temptation,  keeping 
steadfastly  to  that  self-deceptive  determination 
to  finish  the  battle  alone. 

The  torturing  week  came  slowly  to  an  end. 
On  the  final  night,  after  compline,  she  went  to 
her  cell  feeling  like  a  spirit  condemned  to  eter 
nal  night.  Once  alone,  face  to  face  with  her 
[116] 


THE    PASSION 

^•^-g^C^y^-^^^^r-SP*?^^ 

soul,  she  sat  down  upon  a  chair,  bent  her  head 
upon  her  breast,  and  thought.  She  did  not 
extinguish  her  light,  neither  did  she  make 
preparations  for  bed.  Unconsciously  she  set 
herself  to  wait  through  the  hour  following  com 
pline,  as  if  its  finish  would  bring  the  end  of 
her  trial.  The  minutes  were  passing  smoothly 
by,  and  there  was  a  great,  unuttered  cry  of 
terror  in  her  heart.  What  should  she  do  ? 
Nay,  at  the  last  minute,  what  would  she  do  ? 
Here  her  mind  broke.  She  could  think  no 
more.  Her  brain  was  a  vacuum.  Presently 
her  muscles  began  to  twitch.  Her  flesh  be 
came  cold  and  damp,  and  the  hot  saliva  poured 
into  her  mouth.  Would  that  hour  never  end  ? 

It  ended.  By  now  Flammecreur  was  in  the 
garden,  three  hundred  feet  away.  Flamme- 
creur  was  waiting  for  her.  Horses  were  there, 
and  garments  for  her,  —  other  garments  than 
these  of  sickening  white  wool.  How  long 
would  the  trouvere  wait  ?  Till  matins,  he 
had  said.  But  if  that  were  not  true  ?  If  he 
should  go  before  —  if  he  were  going  now  ! 

Laure  started  to  her  feet,  halted,  hesitated, 
then  sank  slowly  to  her  knees.  The  first  words 
of  a  prayer  came  from  her  lips  ;  but  in  the  mid- 
[117] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

die  of  the  phrase  she  was  silent.  Prayer  was 
suddenly  nothing  to  her.  She  had  prayed  so 
much  ;  she  had  prayed  so  Jong  !  The  beauty 
of  appeals  to  the  Most  High  was  lost  just  now. 
She  felt  all  the  weight  of  her  never-satisfied 
religion  upon  her,  and  she  revolted  at  it.  For 
the  moment  love  itself  seemed  desirable  only  in 
so  much  as  it  would  get  her  away  from  this  place 
of  her  hypocrisy.  A  sudden  thought  of  her 
mother  came  to  her.  For  one  moment  —  two 
-  five  —  she  kept  her  mind  fixed.  Then  she 
sobbed.  Flammecceur  was  below,  calling  to  her 
with  every  fibre  of  his  being.  She  knew  that. 
She  could  see  him  waiting  there,  her  cloak 
over  his  arm.  With  a  low  wail  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  the  mental  image.  Afterwards, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  she  knelt  down 
before  the  bright-painted  picture  of  the  Ma 
donna  on  the  wall  of  her  cell,  and  kissed  the 
stones  of  the  floor  below  it. 

Then  she  stood  up,  pressing  her  hands 
tightly  to  her  throat  to  ease  the  pain  there. 
She  looked  around  her,  and  in  that  look  saw 
everything  in  the  little  stone  room  that  had 
for  so  long  been  her  home.  Then,  removing 
from  her  head  the  coif,  wimple,  and  veil,  the 
[118] 


THE    PASSION 


symbols  of  her  virginity,  she  extinguished  her 
lantern,  and  walked,  blindly  and  wearily,  out 
of  her  cell.  So  she  passed,  without  making 
any  noise,  through  the  convent,  into  the  library, 
and  out  —  out  —  out  into  the  garden  beyond. 

Instantly  Flammecoeur  was  at  her  side. 
"  Laure !  "  cried  he,  half  laughing  in  his  tri 
umph.  "  Laure  !  Now  we  shall  go  !  " 

Over  his  arm  he  carried  a  voluminous  black 
mantle  and  a  close,  dark  hood.  These  he  put 
upon  her,  getting  small  assistance  in  the  matter, 
for  Laure's  movements  were  wooden,  her  hands 
like  ice. 

"  Now  —  canst  climb  the  wall  with  me  ?  "  he 
asked,  gazing  at  her  in  her  transformation,  and 
noting  how  pure  and  white  her  skin  showed  in 
its  dark  frame. 

She  gasped  and  bent  her  head.  Thereupon 
he  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  the 
wall.  There  she  surpassed  his  hopes ;  for  her 
old,  tomboyish  skill  suddenly  came  back  to 
her,  and  she  scrambled  up  the  rough  stones 
more  agilely  than  he.  Once  in  the  road  out 
side  the  garden,  Flammecceur  gave  a  low 
whistle.  Then,  out  of  the  shadow  of  the 
wood,  on  the  north  side  of  the  road,  came 
[119] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

5^g^-^^~<^<!^a<gSasg«freT*^^^ 

Yvain,  riding  one  steed,  and  leading  that  of 
Flammecoeur,  on  which  were  both  saddle  and 
pillion.  Flammecoeur  leaped  to  his  place,  and, 
bending  over,  held  out  his  hand  to  Laure. 

"  Thou  comest  freely,"  he  whispered. 

Laure  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  "  Freely," 
she  answered,  surrendering  her  soul. 

He  laughed  again,  softly,  as  she  climbed  up 
behind  him,  by  the  help  of  his  feet  and  his 
hands.  And  then,  in  another  moment,  they 
were  off,  into  the  moonlit  night.  And  what 
that  night  concealed  from  Laure,  what  future 
of  fierce  joy,  of  terror,  of  misery,  and  of  un 
utterable  heartbreak,  how  should  she  know, 
poor  girl,  whose  only  guide  was  God  Inscru 
table,  working  His  mysterious  way  alone,  in 
heaven  on  high  ? 


[  120] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

SHADOWS 


N  the  day  after  Laure's  flight, 
Madame  Eleanore  left  the 
great  dinner-table  and  went 
to  her  bedroom  early  in  the 
afternoon.  Once  again,  as  a 
year  ago,  she  was  alone  there, 
hovering  over  her  priedieu.  Only  this  day 
was  not  sunny,  but  cold  and  damp,  and  very 
gray.  Eleanore  was  in  her  usual  mood  of 
lonely  melancholy,  but  when  Alixe  tapped  at 
the  door  she  was  admitted,  and  madame  ceased 
her  devotions  and  bade  the  girl  come  in  and 
sit  down  to  her  embroidery  frame  beside  the 
window.  Latterly  it  had  become  a  habit  of 
Alixe's  to  break  in  upon  her  foster-mother's 
elected  solitude,  and  to  draw  her,  willy-nilly, 
out  of  her  sadness.  If  madame  perceived  the 
kindly  intention  in  these  interruptions,  she  did 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

not  comment  upon  it,  but  accepted  the  maid's 
devotion  with  growing  affection. 

When  Alixe  entered,  madame  also  seated 
herself  near  the  window,  yet  did  not  take  up 
any  work,  leaving  the  tambour  frame  and 
spinning-wheel  both  idle  in  their  places.  She 
regarded  Alixe  for  a  few  moments  in  silence, 
wondering  why  the  young  girl  did  not  speak, 
finally  putting  her  dulness  down  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  but  yesterday  morning  they  had 
bidden  Flammecoeur  and  his  squire  God-speed 
on  their  journey  to  Normandy.  Their  long 
sojourn  at  Crepuscule  had  brought  a  gayety  to 
the  Castle  that  made  it  doubly  dull  now  that 
they  were  gone.  Madame  pondered  for  some 
time  on  the  subject,  and  presently  spoke  of  it. 

"  Sieur  Bertrand  hath  a  dreary  sky  for  his 
journey." 

"  But  a  promise  of  beauty  in  the  land  to 
which  he  goeth,"  responded  Alixe,  with  some 
thing  of  an  effort. 

"  Mayhap.     I  have  not  been  in  Normandy." 

And    here  the  conversation  ended.      They 

sat  together,  these  two  women,  listening  to  the 

incessant  beating  of  the  heavy  waves  on  the 

cliff  far  below,  and  to  the  tap,  tap,  of  the  rain 

[122] 


SHADOWS 


upon  the  windows ;  but  neither  found  it  in  her 
heart  to  speak  again.  Alixe  was  shading  her 
bird  from  blue  into  green,  and  Eleanore  sat 
with  folded  hands,  her  eyes  looking  far  away, 
musing  upon  the  nothingness  of  her  life.  Sud 
denly  there  came  a  clamor  at  the  door.  Some 
what  startled,  Eleanore  called  admittance,  and 
immediately  David  the  dwarf  walked  into  the 
room,  stepped  to  the  right  of  the  doorway, 
and  ushered  in  his  companion,  announcing  her 
gravely,  — 

"  Soeur  Celeste  from  the  Couvent  des 
Madeleines." 

The  sub-prioress,  her  white  cloak  and  veil 
damp  and  stringing  with  rain,  came  slowly  into 
the  room  and  courtesied,  first  to  Eleanore,  then 
to  Alixe. 

Madame  rose  hastily,  in  some  surprise,  and 
went  forward. 

"  Give  you  God's  greeting,  good  sister,"  she 
said. 

The  nun  returned  the  salutation,  and  then, 
with  some  hesitation,  indicated  the  little  dwarf 
in  a  gesture  that  showed  her  desire  that  he 
should  leave  the  room.  Madame  accordingly 
motioned  him  away,  and  when  he  was  gone, 
[123] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

turned  to  the  nun  with  a  hint  of  anxiety  on 
her  face.  The  new-comer  did  not  hesitate 
in  her  mission.  Leaning  over,  she  asked 
eagerly,  — 

"  Madame,  is  Angelique  here,  with  you  ?  " 

Eleanore  looked  at  her  blankly.  "  Laure  ? 
—  Laure  is  with  you.  Laure  is —  What 
sayest  thou,  woman  ?  " 

Soeur  Celeste  resignedly  bent  her  head.  For 
some  seconds  nothing  was  said.  Alixe,  her  face 
grown  ashen,  her  body  changed  to  ice,  rose,  and 
moved  to  the  side  of  madame.  Then  she  asked 
softly,  "  What  hath  happened,  good  sister?  " 

"  Angelique  —  Laure  —  the  demoiselle  —  is 
not  in  the  convent.  We  have  searched  for  her 
everywhere.  Her  veil  and  wimple  were  found 
in  her  cell  upon  the  bed.  Beyond  this  there  is 
no  trace  of  her.  This  morning  she  came  not 
to  the  church  for  prime,  and  we  thought  she 
had  overslept.  She  hath  so  much  fasted  and 
prayed  of  late  that  Reverend  Mother  granted 
indulgence,  and  bade  us  let  her  rest.  At  break 
ing  of  the  fast  Soeur  Eloise  was  despatched  to 
her  cell,  and  returned  with  word  that  she  was 
not  there.  Since  that  hour  even  the  daily  ser 
vices  have  been  suspended,  while  we  sought 
[124] 


SHADOWS 

gSSas^7^vT^S^cn''n>^ 

for  her.      In  the  garden  we  found  footprints, 

—  those  of  a  woman,  and  of  a  man.     Perchance 
they  were  hers  —  yet  —  " 

"  It  is  a  lie  !  That  is  a  lie  !  "  burst  from 
Eleanore's  white  lips.  "  Woman,  woman,  un 
say  thy  words  !  No  man  hath  ever  seen  her, 

—  my  Laure !  " 

"  I  said  it  not,  Madame  Eleanore ;  I  but  said 
mayhap,"  ventured  the  gentle  sister,  timidly. 
But  Eleanore  did  not  hear  her.  White,  rigid, 
her  every  muscle  drawn  tense,  she  stood  there 
staring  before  her  into  space ;  while  Alixe, 
feeling  this  scene  to  be  too  intimate  even  for 
her  presence,  glided  slowly  from  the  room. 

Immediately  outside  the  closed  door  stood 
David  the  dwarf,  moving  restlessly  from  one 
spot  to  another,  biting  his  thick  lips,  and 
working  his  heavy  black  brows  with  great  ner 
vousness.  Seeing  Alixe,  he  seized  upon  her 
at  once. 

"  I  know  what  it  is :  Laure  hath  gone  away, 
hath  she  not?" 

Alixe  simply  nodded. 

"Yea,  I  know  it,  —  with  that  scoundrelly 
trouvere  ! " 

Alixe  quivered  as  if  she  had  been  touched 
[125] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


upon  the  raw ;  but  David  paid  no  attention  to 
her  movement  of  pain. 

"  Come,"  he  jerked  out  nervously  ;  "  come 
away  from  this  room.  Come  below.  I  will 
tell  thee  what  I  saw  in  the  fellow." 

The  two  of  them  walked  silently  across  the 
broad  upper  hall  and  down  the  great  staircase 
into  the  lower  room,  which  was  always  deserted 
at  this  hour.  Here  Alixe  and  the  dwarf 
seated  themselves  on  tabourets  at  one  of  the 
long  tables,  and  David  began  to  talk.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  watched  FlammeoEur 
closely,  and  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  his  at 
tentions  to  Laure ;  knew  how  he  rode  with 
her  to  and  from  the  priory,  guessed  Laure's 
all  too  apparent  feeling  for  him,  and  was 
aware  that  most  of  the  hours  in  which  the 
troubadour  had  supposedly  hunted,  hawked, 
or  gone  to  St.  Nazaire,  had  really  been  spent 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  priory,  though 
how  much  he  had  seen  of  the  nun,  David 
could  not  know. 

Alixe  listened  to  him  without  much  com 
ment,  and  agreed  in  her  heart  with  all  that  he 
said.  But  she  was  at  a  loss  to  comprehend 
her  own  bitterness  of  spirit  at  thought  of  what 
[126] 


SHADOWS 


Flammecceur  had  done.  She  loved  Laure 
truly ;  yet  these  sensations  of  hers  were  not 
for  Laure,  but  for  herself  alone;  and  this  girl, 
so  acute  at  reading  the  minds  of  others,  failed 
entirely  to  read  her  own ;  for  had  she  not 
soundly  hated  Flammecoeur  ?  Had  she  hated 
him  ? 

It  was  a  heavy  hour  that  these  two,  dwarf 
and  peasant  born,  spent  waiting  for  their  lady 
to  give  some  sign.  At  length,  however,  there 
were  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  both  of  them 
rose,  as  Eleanore,  followed,  not  accompanied, 
by  the  white-robed  nun,  descended. 

Madame  was  very  erect,  very  brilliant-eyed, 
very  white  and  stiff,  but  she  had  perfect  con 
trol  over  herself.  As  she  swept  toward  the 
great  door,  David  could  plainly  see  her  state, 
and  Alixe  read  well  her  heart ;  yet  neither  of 
them  could  but  admire  her  splendid  self-pos 
session.  Out  of  the  Castle  and  into  the  court 
yard  she  went,  the  three  others  following  her, 
on  her  way  to  the  keep.  In  the  open  doorway 
of  the  rough  stone  tower,  she  halted  ;  and  the 
dozen  lolling  henchmen  within  instantly  started 
to  their  feet. 

"  My  men,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  as  steady 
[127] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

and  as  commanding  as  that  of  a  lord  of  Cre- 
puscule,  "  my  men,  a  great  blow  has  fallen 
upon  me,  and  a  disgrace  to  all  that  dwell  in 
this  Castle.  Laure,  my  daughter,  your  demoi 
selle,  the  lady  of  all  our  hearts,  hath  been 
stolen  from  the  place  of  her  consecration.  She 
hath  been  abducted  from  the  priory  of  the 
Holy  Madeleine,  by  one  that  hath  broken  our 
bread,  and  received  our  hospitality.  Bertrand 
Flammecceur,  the  troubadour,  hath  brought 
dishonor  upon  Le  Crepuscule,  and  I  ask  you 
all  to  avenge  your  lord  and  me ! " 

Here  she  was  interrupted  by  a  chorus  begun 
in  low  murmurs  of  astonishment,  and  now 
risen  to  a  roar  of  wrath.  After  a  moment  she 
raised  her  hand,  and,  in  the  silence  that  quickly 
ensued,  began  again, — 

"  In  the  name  of  your  lord,  I  bid  you  avenge 
us  !  Ride  forth,  every  man  of  you,  into  the 
country-side,  in  pursuit  of  the  flying  hound. 
Go  every  man  by  a  different  road,  nor  halt  by 
day  or  night  till  you  bring  me  tidings  of  my 
child.  And  to  him  that  shall  find  and  bring 
her  back  to  me,  will  I  give  honor  and  riches 
and  great  love,  such  as  I  would  give  to  none 
that  was  not  of  noble  blood.  Go,  nor  stay  to 
[128] 


SHADOWS 


talk  of  it.  —  Go  forth  in  the  name  of  God  — 
and  bring  me  back  my  child  ! " 

The  men  needed  no  further  urging  to  action. 
As  she  ceased  to  speak  they  sprang  from  their 
places,  and  began  preparations  for  departure 
with  a  spirit  that  showed  their  devotion  to 
madame  and  to  Laure.  Madame  stayed  in 
the  courtyard  till  Soeur  Celeste  and  the  last 
henchman  had  ridden  away ;  and  then,  when 
there  was  no  more  to  see,  she  turned  to  Alixe, 
and,  leaning  heavily  upon  the  young  girl's 
shoulder,  slowly  mounted  to  her  darkening 
chamber  and  lay  down  upon  her  tapestried 
bed.  Alixe  moved  gently  about  the  room, 
bringing  her  lady  such  physical  comforts  as  she 
could,  though  these  were  not  many.  Neither 
of  them  spoke,  and  neither  wept.  Eleanore 
lay  motionless,  staring  out  into  the  dusk. 
Alixe's  eyes  closed  every  now  and  then,  with  a 
kind  of  deadly  weariness  that  was  not  physi 
cal.  But  she  did  not  leave  madame. 

After  a  long  time,  when  it  had  grown  quite 
dark,  Alixe  asked  suddenly, — 

"  Wouldst  have  a  message  sent  to  Rennes, 
madame  ? " 

"To  Gerault?  No,  it  is  too  late.  What 
_  m  [129] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


could  he  do  ?  Nay,  I  will  not  have  the 
shame  of  his  house  published  abroad  in  the 
Duke's  capital.  Speak  of  it  no  more."  And, 
obediently,  Alixe  was  silent. 

It  was  now  long  past  the  early  supper  hour, 
but  neither  of  the  women  went  downstairs. 
The  thought  of  food  did  not  occur  to  Eleanore. 
Alixe  sat  by  the  closed  window,  brooding 
deeply.  Darkness  had  come  over  the  sea,  and 
with  it  clouds  dispersed  so  that  a  few  stars 
glimmered  forth,  and  at  times  a  moon  showed 
through  the  ragged  mists.  Downstairs  the 
young  men  and  maidens  had  resorted  to  their 
usual  evening  amusements  of  games,  but  they 
played  without  spirit,  and  finally,  one  by  one, 
heavy  with  unvoiced  foreboding,  crept  off  to 
rest.  David  the  dwarf  had  not  been  among 
them  at  all  to-night.  Ever  since  the  ending 
of  supper  he  had  sat  outside  the  door  of 
madame's  room,  waiting,  patiently,  for  some 
sound  to  come  from  within.  Everything,  how 
ever,  was  silent.  From  her  bed  the  mother, 
tearless,  bright-eyed,  watched  the  broken  moon 
light  creep  along  the  floor,  past  the  figure  of 
Alixe.  Her  mind  was  filled  with  terrible  things, 
—  pictures  of  Laure,  and  of  what  the  young 
[130] 


SHADOWS 


girl  was  doubtless  enduring.  For  a  long  time 
she  contained  herself  under  these  thoughts, 
but  finally,  racked  with  unbearable  misery,  she 
started  up,  crying  aloud, — 

"  Alixe  !  Alixe !   Methinks  I  shall  go  mad  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  madame  rose  from  the  bed, 
stumbled  across  the  floor,  flung  open  one  of 
the  windows,  and  looked  out  upon  the  splendor 
of  the  tumbling,  moonlit  sea.  After  a  moment 
or  two  she  felt  upon  her  arm  a  gentle  touch, 
and  she  knew  that  Alixe  was  beside  her. 

"Mad  with  thy  thoughts,  madame?  In 
deed,  meseemeth  Laure  will  not  die.  Doubt 
less  the  Sieur  Trouvere  loveth  her  —  " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  long  groan. 

"  Madame  ?  "  she  whispered,  in  soft  depre 
cation. 

"Not  die,  Alixe?  Not  die?  Dieu!  It 
were  now  my  one  prayer  for  her  that  she 
might  quickly  die  !  " 

"  Nay,  what  is  there  so  terrible  for  her,  save 
that  she  hath  brought  upon  herself  damnation 
an  she  die  unrepentant?  Wouldst  thou  not 
have  her  live  to  repent  and  be  shriven  ? " 

Eleanore  groaned  again.  "  Thou  art  too 
young  to  understand,  Alixe.  Ah  !  her  pur- 
[131] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

ity !  her  innocence  !  How  she  will  suffer ! 
There  is  no  suffering  like  unto  it."  Madame 
slipped  to  her  knees,  there  by  the  window,  and 
putting  her  arms  upon  the  sill,  buried  her  head 
in  them,  and  drew  two  or  three  terrible  breaths. 
Alixe,  helpless,  righting  to  keep  down  her  own 
secret  woe  in  the  face  of  this  more  bitter  grief, 
felt  herself  useless.  She  remained  perfectly 
still,  looking  out  at  the  sea,  but  noting  nothing 
of  its  beauty,  till,  all  at  once,  madame  began 
to  speak  again,  in  a  muffled  voice, — 

"  I  remember  well  my  wedding  with  the 
Sieur  du  Crepuscule.  I  was  of  the  age  and  of 
the  innocence  of  Laure.  Never  was  mortal  so 
happy  as  I,  upon  the  day  of  the  ceremony  at 
Laval.  I  loved  my  lord,  and  he  had  given  all 
his  honor  into  my  keeping.  But  had  the  bit 
terness  of  guilt  been  on  me  when  I  was  brought 
home  to  Le  Crepuscule,  alone  and  a  stranger 
in  his  house,  I  know  not  if  I  could  have  lived 
through  the  shame  and  bitterness  of  my  first 
days.  Thou  canst  not  know,  Alixe ;  but  the 
humiliation  of  that  time  is  as  fresh  in  my 
memory  as  't  were  but  yesterday.  Ah  !  leave 
me  now,  maiden.  Leave  me  alone.  Thou  'st 
been  good  and  faithful  to  me,  but  a  mother's 
[  132  ] 


SHADOWS 

grief  she  must  bear  alone.  Go  thou  to  bed, 
child,  and,  in  the  name  of  pity,  pray  for  thy 
sister!" 

So  she  sent  Alixe  from  the  room,  and  made 
the  door  fast  after  her.  After  this  she  did  not 
return  to  her  place  at  the  window,  but  began 
slowly  to  make  ready  for  the  night.  When  at 
length  she  was  prepared,  she  wrapped  herself 
closely  in  a  warm  woollen  mantle,  and  went  to 
her  priedieu.  Laure,  from  the  priory,  had 
ceased  to  accost  Heaven.  Therefore  madame 
took  her  daughter's  place,  and  thence  through 
the  night  ascended  an  unceasing,  bitter,  com 
manding  prayer  that  Laure  should  be  restored 
to  her  mother's  house,  or  else  be  mercifully 
received  into  the  more  accessible  hereafter. 

When  morning  dawned,  her  great  bed  had 
not  been  slept  in,  but  throughout  that  day 
Eleanore  sought  no  rest.  She  spent  the  hours 
passing  from  the  hall  to  the  keep  and  thence 
to  the  tower  at  the  drawbridge,  waiting,  hoping, 
praying  for  tidings.  During  the  afternoon 
three  or  four  henchmen  rode  in,  exhausted. 
But  none  of  them  had  found  any  trace  of  Laure. 
One,  however,  who  had  taken  the  St.  Nazaire 
road  and  had  reached  that  town  during  the 
[133] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

s=ss^asag^sas^^3Sssr-5^r?g^£>ffi^^r^sss£=sT^r7?s~ 

night,  had  learned  that  Flammecceur  and  his 
page  had  been  there  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  they  left  Crepuscule.  And,  upon  further 
search,  this  man  found  a  shop  where  the  trou- 
vere  had  bought  a  lady's  mantle  and  hood, 
both  black.  This  was  all  the  news  that  could 
be  got ;  but  it  was  enough  to  prove,  without 
the  least  doubt,  Flammecosur's  guilt. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Alixe  went  to  work 
among  the  falcons,  changing  some  of  them 
from  their  winter-house  to  the  open  falconry  in 
the  field.  Madame,  seeing  her  at  work,  went 
out  and  watched  her  for  a  time.  Alixe  an 
swered  her  few  remarks  with  respect,  but 
would  not  talk  herself.  The  girl  was  dark- 
browed  to-day,  and  very  silent,  and  madame, 
perceiving  that  something  troubled  her,  shortly 
left  her  to  herself,  and  began  to  pace  the  damp 
turf.  Hither,  presently,  came  David,  with 
the  news  that  Monseigneur  de  St.  Nazaire 
had  come. 

With  a  cry  of  sudden  relief  madame  hurried 
back  to  the  Castle,  where  the  Bishop  awaited 
her.  He  was  gowned  as  usual  in  his  violet, 
with  round  black  cap,  and  gauntlet  cut  to  show 
his  ring.  And  as  she  came  into  the  great  hall, 


SHADOWS 

SiSS^=£=S2S2SS5S 

he  advanced  to  her  with  both  hands  outstretched 
and  a  look  of  trouble  in  his  clear  eyes. 

"  Eleanore,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years 
I  come  to  you  in  sorrow,  to  bring  to  you  what 
comfort  the  Church  can  give,"  he  said  gently, 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  her  to  read  how  she  had 
taken  her  blow,  and  from  it  decide  what  his 
attitude  toward  her  should  be.  For  St.  Na- 
zaire  had  a  great  and  affectionate  respect  for 
Eleanore,  and  he  was  accustomed  to  treat  her 
with  a  consideration  that  he  used  toward  no 
other  woman.  It  was  for  this  that  he  had 
come  to  her  in  her  grief,  at  the  first  moment 
that  he  heard  the  news  of  Laure's  flight. 

"  Come  thou  into  this  room,  where  we  can 
be  alone,"  she  said  quickly,  leading  him  into 
the  round  armory  that  opened  off  the  great 
hall  immediately  opposite  the  chapel.  Half 
closing  the  heavy  door,  she  sat  down  on  a 
wooden  settle,  motioning  the  Bishop  to  a 
tabouret  near  at  hand. 

"Is  there  any  news  of  her?  What  hast 
thou  heard  ? "  she  asked  eagerly,  bending 
toward  him. 

"  I  come  but  now  from  the  priory,  where 
I  chanced  to  go  to-day.  This  morning  the  girl 
[135] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Eloise,  a  lay  sister,  she  that  was  accustomed 
to  ride  hither  from  the  priory  with  Laure, 
confessed  to  many  rides  and  love-passages  be 
tween  herself  and  Yvain  the  young  squire, 
while  Bertrand  Flammecoeur  followed  Laure." 

Madame  drew  a  sharp  breath,  and  the  Bishop 
continued :  "  The  girl  is  now  under  heavy 
penance  ;  yet  is  she  a  silly  thing,  and  in  my 
heart  I  find  no  great  blame  for  her." 

"  Then  there  hath  been  no  word  —  no  news 
—  of  Laure  ?  Left  she  no  token  in  her  cell  ? " 

"  Nothing,  Eleanore,  nothing." 

"  Ah,  St.  Nazaire  !  St.  Nazaire  !  how  did 
we  that  cruel  thing  ?  How  took  we  away  from 
a  young  girl  all  her  freedom,  all  her  youth,  all 
her  love  of  life  ?  Know  I  not  enough  of  the 
woe  of  loneliness,  that  I  should  have  sent  her 
forth  into  that  living  death  ?  Alas !  alas  !  I 
am  all  to  blame." 

"  Not  wholly  thou,  madame.  Perhaps  the 
Church  also,"  said  the  Bishop,  softly. 

Eleanore  looked  at  him  in  something  of 
amazement  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
ever  suggested  any  criticism  of  the  Church. 
But  after  these  words  had  escaped  him,  the 
Bishop  paused  for  a  little  and  fixed  upon 
[1361 


SHADOWS 

Eleanore  a  look  that  she  read  aright.  It 
told  her  many  things  that  she  had  guessed 
before,  many  unuttered  things  that  had  drawn 
her  closely  to  St.  Nazaire ;  but  it  told  her 
also  that  these  things  must  never  be  discussed 
between  them ;  that  never  again  would  the 
man  be  guilty  of  so  heretical  an  utterance  as 
that  which  he  had  just  voiced. 

After  this  he  began  to  speak  again,  still  in 
the  same  tone  of  sympathy,  but  with  a  subtle 
difference  in  the  general  tenor  of  his  views. 
He  told  her,  in  a  manner  eloquent  with  sim 
plicity,  of  his  talk  with  Laure  on  the  eve  of 
her  consecration.  He  reminded  Eleanore  that 
Laure  had  entered  of  her  own  free  will  upon 
the  life  of  a  nun.  He  recalled  the  girl's  con 
tentment  throughout  the  period  of  her  novi 
tiate  ;  and  finally,  seeing  that  he  had  succeeded 
in  obliterating  some  of  the  self-reproach  in  this 
woman  to  whom  he  was  so  sincerely  attached, 
he  began  to  prepare  her  for  the  blow  that  he 
was  about  to  deal,  to  tell  her  what  words  could 
not  soften,  to  inflict  a  wound  that  time  could 
not  heal,  but  which,  according  to  the  law  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  he  was  bound  to 
administer. 

[137] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Eleanore  listened  to  his  plausibly  logical 
phrases  with  close  attention.  She  sat  there 
before  him,  elbow  on  knee,  her  head  resting 
on  her  hand,  her  eyes  wandering  over  the 
armor-strewn  walls.  The  Bishop  talked  around 
his  subject,  circling  ever  a  little  nearer  to  its 
climax  ;  but  he  was  still  far  from  the  end  when 
madame,  suddenly  straightening  up  and  look 
ing  full  into  his  eyes,  interrupted  him  to  ask 
baldly  :  "  Monseigneur,  hast  thou  never,  in 
thy  heart,  known  the  yearning  for  a  woman's 
love  ? " 

"  Many  a  time  and  oft,  madame,  I  have 
felt  love — a  deeply  reverent  love  —  for  woman  ; 
and  I  have  rejoiced  therein,  and  given  thanks 
to  God,"  was  the  careful  reply. 

But  Eleanore  had  begun  her  attack,  and  she 
would  not  be  repulsed  in  the  first  onslaught. 
"And  has  no  woman,  Reverend  Father,  known 
thy  love  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Madame  !  "  A  pale  flush  overspread  St. 
Nazaire's  face.  "  That  question  is  not — kind," 
he  said  haltingly,  but  without  rebuke. 

"  Nay.  I  am  not  kind  now.  Make  me 
answer." 

St.  Nazaire  looked  at  her  thoughtfully,  and 
[138] 


SHADOWS 

weighed  certain  things  in  certain  balances. 
Because  of  many  years  of  the  confessional  and 
also  of  free  confidence  he  knew  Eleanore  thor 
oughly, —  knew  how  she  had  suffered  every 
soul-torment ;  knew  her  unswerving  virtue ; 
sympathized  with  her  intense  loneliness.  He 
prized  her  trust  in  him  more  than  she  was 
aware,  and  he  feared  to  jeopardize  that  con 
fidence  now  by  whatever  answer  he  should 
make.  Ignorant  of  the  purport  of  her  ques 
tions,  he  yet  saw  that  she  was  in  terrible 
earnest  in  them.  So  finally  he  did  the  honest 
and  straightforward  thing.  Answering  her 
look,  eye  for  eye,  he  said  slowly :  "  Yea, 
Eleanore  of  Le  Crepuscule,  a  woman  hath 
known  my  love.  What  then  ?  " 

"  Then  if  thou,  a  good  man  and  as  strong 
as  any  the  Church  ever  knew,  found  that  to 
human  nature  a  loveless  life  is  an  impossibility, 
how  shouldst  thou  blame  a  maid,  high-strung, 
full  of  youth,  vitality,  emotions  that  she  has 
not  tried,  for  yielding  to  the  same  temptation 
before  which  thou  didst  fall  ?  How  is  it  right 
that  the  Church  —  that  God  —  should  demand 
so  much  ?  —  should  ask  more  than  His  crea 
tures  can  give  ?  " 

[139] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  Eleanore  !  Eleanore  !  thou  shalt  not  ques 
tion  God  !  " 

"  I  do  not  question  Him.  It  is  —  it  is  —  " 
untried  in  this  exercise,  she  groped  for  words. 
"  It  is  what  ye  say  He  saith.  It  is  what  ye 
declare  His  will  to  be  that  I  question." 

"  What,  Eleanore,  have  I  declared  His  will 
to  be  ?  Have  I  yet  blamed  or  chid  the  way 
wardness  of  Laure,  whom  indeed  I  loved  as  a 
dear  daughter,  —  a  child  of  purity  and  faith  ?  " 

"  Then,  then,"  Eleanore  bent  over  eagerly, 
and  her  voice  shook,  —  "  then,  an  thou  blamest 
her  not,  St.  Nazaire,  thou  wilt  not  — "  she 
clasped  her  hands  in  an  agony  of  pleading, 
"  thou  wilt  not  put  upon  her  the  terrible  ban  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  excommunicate  her  ?  " 

It  was  only  then  that  the  Bishop  realized 
how  skilfully  she  had  led  up  to  her  point. 
He  had  not  realized  that  he  was  dealing 
with  perception  engendered  by  an  agony  of 
grief  and  fear.  As  she  reached  her  climax,  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  began  to  pace  the  room, 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  brows  much  con 
tracted,  head  far  bent  upon  his  breast.  Elea 
nore,  meantime,  had  slid  to  her  knees  and 
watched  him  as  he  moved. 
[140] 


SHADOWS 

"If  thou  wilt  spare  her,  ask  what  thou  wilt 
of  me.  I  will  do  her  penance,  whatever  thou 
shalt  decree.  I  will  give  money  ;  I  will  give 
all  that  remains  to  me  of  my  dower,  freely  and 
with  light  heart,  to  the  Church.  I  will  aid 
whomsoever  thou  wilt  of  thy  poor,  I  —  " 

"  Cease,  Eleanore  !  These  things  cannot 
avail  against  the  Church.  Thou  must  not 
tempt,  thou  must  not  question ;  thou  canst 
not  understand  the  Law  I  I  am  but  an  instru 
ment  of  that  Law,  and  am  commanded  by  it. 
Laure,  the  bride  of  Heaven,  hath  forsaken  her 
chosen  life.  She  must  endure  her  punishment, 
being  guilty  of — thou  knowest  the  sin. 
Next  Sunday  the  ban  must  be  put  upon  her. 
In  doing  so,  I  but  obey  a  higher  power.  Elea 
nore,  Eleanore,  rise  from  thy  knees  !  Thou 
art  tearing  at  my  heart !  Peace,  woman ! 
Peace,  and  let  me  go  !  " 

Eleanore,  in  her  agony  of  despair,  had 
crept  to  him  and  clasped  his  knees,  mutely 
imploring  the  pity  that  he  dared  not  show. 
Logic  and  reason  he  had  put  from  him,  holding 
fast  to  the  tenets  of  that  Church  that  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  In  all  his  career  he 
had  not  been  so  tried,  so  tempted,  to  slip  his 
[141] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

duty.  But,  through  the  crucial  moment,  he 
did  not  speak  ;  and  after  that  he  was  safe  from 
attack. 

After  many  minutes  the  mother  loosed  her 
clasp  of  him,  and  ceased  to  moan,  and  let  him 
go;  for  she  saw  that  he  could  not  help  her. 
And  as  he  passed  slowly  out  of  the  room,  she 
rose  to  her  feet  and  looked  after  him  blindly. 
Then  she  groped  her  way  to  the  door,  crossed 
the  great  hall,  and,  with  her  burden,  ascended 
the  stairs  and  went  to  her  own  room.  Next 
morning,  when  the  Bishop  said  mass  in  the 
chapel,  madame,  for  the  first  time  in  thirty 
years  on  such  an  occasion,  was  not  present. 
Nor  did  monseigneur  seem  astonished  at  the 
fact,  but  left  his  sympathy  for  her  before  he 
rode  away  to  St.  Nazaire. 

All  that  afternoon  and  night,  indeed,  till  after 
dawn  of  the  next  day,  weary  henchmen  of  the 
keep  came  straggling  in  on  spent  horses,  fruit 
less  returned  from  a  fruitless  quest.  And  when 
they  were  all  back  again,  and  the  hope  of  see 
ing  Laure  was  gone,  the  shadow  of  loneliness 
settled  a  little  lower  over  the  great  pile  of  stone, 
and  the  silence  within  the  Castle  grew  more  and 
more  intense  to  the  aching  heart  within. 
[  142] 


SHADOWS 

^?g^g^g^^^g!^^>g^ 

In  the  general  desolation  of  Castle  life 
Alixe,  the  unnatural  child  of  peasant  blood, 
came  very  close  to  the  heart  of  Eleanore. 
Through  the  long,  budding  spring  madame 
fought  a  terrible  battle  with  herself  against  an 
overpowering  desire  for  an  end  of  life,  for  the 
peace  of  death.  And  in  these  times  Alixe 
often  drew  her  away  from  herself  by  getting 
her  to  hunt  and  to  hawk,  —  two  amusements 
in  which  madame  had  been  wont  to  indulge 
eagerly  in  her  youth,  and  which  she  found  were 
still  possible  for  her,  though  she  had  grown  to 
what  she  thought  old-womanhood.  Besides 
this,  she  and  Alixe  took  the  long  walks  that 
Laure  had  formerly  delighted  in;  and  the  two 
ventured  into  many  a  deep  cave  in  the  sea- 
cliffs,  and  explored  many  crevices  that  no 
native  of  the  coast  would  enter.  In  these 
places  they  found  fair  treasures  of  the  sea, 
but  were  never  accosted  by  any  of  the  super 
natural  beings  said  to  inhabit  such  spots. 
Nor,  though  they  listened  many  times  for  it  at 
twilight,  did  either  of  them  hear,  a  single  time, 
the  long,  low,  wailing  cries  of  the  spirit  of  the 
lost  Lenore. 

In  this  way  some  pleasures  entered  unawares 
[143] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


into  the  life  of  Eleanore.  Perhaps  there  were 
other  pleasures  also,  so  simple  and  so  familiar 
that  she  took  no  cognizance  of  them  as  such. 
Perhaps  of  a  morning,  in  the  spinning-room, 
when  her  fingers  flew  under  some  familiar, 
pretty  task,  and  her  ears  were  filled  with  the 
chatter  of  the  demoiselles,  who  still  strove 
after  light-hearted  joys  amid  their  gray  sur 
roundings,  she  found  forgetfulness  of  Laure's 
bitter  disgrace.  Or  better  still,  when,  at  the 
sunset  hour,  she  paced  the  grassy  falcon-field, 
watching  the  glories  of  the  sea  and  sky,  there 
came  to  her  heart  that  benison  of  Nature  that 
God  has  devised  for  all  of  us  in  our  days  of 
woe.  But  when  she  was  alone,  in  early  after 
noon,  or,  most  of  all,  through  the  silent  night- 
watches,  she  was  sometimes  overcome  with 
sheer  terror  of  herself  and  of  her  solitude.  At 
such  times  she  fought  the  creeping  horror  with 
what  weapons  time  had  given  her,  battling  so 
bravely  that  she  never  suffered  utter  rout. 

In  a  dim,  quiet  way  the  weeks  sped  on, 
leaving  behind  them  no  trace  of  what  had 
been,  nothing  for  memory  to  hang  her  lightest 
fabric  on.  In  all  the  weeks  that  lay  between 
Laure's  flight  and  the  coming  of  July,  Elea- 
[144] 


SHADOWS 

g^S^>g?g^^>g^s>^>g 

nore  could  remember  distinctly  just  one  talk 
beside  the  bitter  one  with  St.  Nazaire.  And 
this  other  was  with  neither  Alixe  nor  the 
Bishop,  who,  however,  made  it  a  point  to  come 
once  in  a  fortnight  to  Le  Crepuscule. 

On  a  fair  morning  in  May,  as  the  dawn  crept 
up  out  of  the  east  not  many  hours  after  midnight, 
Eleanore  rose,  in  the  early  flush,  and,  clothing 
herself  lightly,  left  her  room  with  the  intention 
of  going  into  the  fields  to  walk.  No  one  was  to 
be  seen  as  she  entered  the  lower  hall ;  but,  to 
her  amazement,  the  great  door  stood  half  open, 
and  through  it  poured  a  draught  of  morn 
ing  air,  rich  with  the  perfume  of  blossoming 
trees  and  fertile  fields.  Wondering  that  Alixe 
should  have  risen  so  early,  Eleanore  left  the 
Castle  and  hurried  out  of  the  courtyard  into 
the  strip  of  meadow  lying  between  the  wall 
and  the  dry  moat.  Here,  near  the  north  edge 
of  the  cliff,  sitting  cross-legged  in  the  grass, 
sat  David  the  dwarf,  holding  in  his  hand  some 
thing  to  which  he  talked  in  a  low,  solemn  tone. 
Advancing  noiselessly  toward  him,  Eleanore 
perceived  that  it  was  a  dead  butterfly  that  he 
had  found,  and  to  which  he  was  pouring  out 
his  soul.  Amazed  at  the  first  phrases  that 
[10]  [145] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

E^gssacasasssass^ssssa^ 

caught  her  ears,  she  halted  a.  few  steps  behind 
him,  and  there  learned  something  of  the 
thoughts  that  lay  hidden  in  his  volatile  brain. 

"White  Butterfly,  White  Butterfly,  thou 
frail  and  delicate  child  of  summer,  speak  to 
me  again !  Say,  hast  thou  found  death  as 
fair  as  life,  thou  White  and  Still  ?  Came  the 
messenger  to  thee  unawares,  or  didst  thou  see 
his  face  and  know  it  ?  Wast  thou  confessed, 
White  Butterfly?  Wentest  thou  forth  ab 
solved  of  all  thy  fluttering  sins  ? 

"  Say,  wanderer,  didst  love  thy  life  ?  Wast 
afraid  or  sorrowful  to  leave  it,  in  its  dawn  ? 
Or  foundest  thou  comfort  in  the  thought  of 
eternal  rest  for  thy  battling  wings  ? 

"  And  I,  O  living  Thistledown,  teach  me 
my  way  !  Shall  I  follow  thee  into  the  great 
world,  to  roam  there  seeking  why  men  love  to 
live?  Or  shall  I  also,  like  thee,  leave  it  all  ? 
Shall  I  go,  knowing  nothing  of  the  joy  of  life  ? 
Or,  again,  shall  I  practise  a  weary  courtesy, 
and  remain  to  bring  echoes  of  laughter  into 
that  Twilight  Castle,  for  the  sake  of  the  love  I 
bear  its  Twilight  Lady  ?  Her  life,  my  flut- 
terer,  hath  been  such  a  dream  of  tears  as  even 
thou  and  I,  dead  thing,  have  never  known. 
[146] 


SHADOWS 


Yea,  many  a  time  while  I  laughed  and  shouted 
at  the  light  crew  of  damsels  that  sleep  there 
now,  my  heart  hath  bled  for  her.  O  Ghost 
of  the  Morning,  know  you  what  Eleanore,  our 
lady,  thinks  of  me,  the  fool  ?  And  yet,  yet 
I  do  so  deeply  pity  her  —  " 

"Thou  pityest  me,  David  ?"  echoed  Elea 
nore,  advancing  till  she  stood  before  him,  for 
getful  of  how  her  appearance  must  startle  him. 

David  looked  up  at  her,  winking  slowly, 
like  one  that  would  bring  himself  out  of  a 
dream-world  into  reality.  "  Lady  of  Twi 
light,  thou  'rt  a  woman,  lonely  and  mournful, 
forsaken  of  thy  children.  Therefore  I  grieve 
for  thee,"  he  said  slowly,  gazing  at  her  with 
his  big  eyes,  but  not  rising  from  where  he  sat. 

"  A  woman,"  said  Eleanore,  looking  at  him 
with  a  half-smile,  and  echoing  his  tone,  —  "a 
woman  doubtless  is  always  to  be  pitied ;  and 
yet  what  man  deems  it  so  ?  Master  David, 
ye  are  all  born  of  women,  and  ye  are  all  reared 
by  them.  Afterwards,  in  youth,  ye  wed,  use 
us  as  your  playthings  for  an  hour,  and  then 
leave  us  in  your  gray  dwellings,  while  ye  fare 
forth  to  more  manly  sports  and  exploits. 
There  in  solitude  we  bear  and  rear  again,  and 
[147] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

later  our  maidens  wed  and  our  sons  depart 
from  us,  and  for  the  last  time,  in  our  age,  we 
are  left  alone  to  die.  Truly,  David,  thou 
mayest  well  pity  !  " 

David's  wide  mouth  curved  in  a  bitter  smile. 

"  Even  so,  Madame  Eleanore.  And  now, 
for  fifteen  years,  I  have  lived  as  a  woman  lives. 
Mayhap  by  now  I  know  her  life  better  than 
other  men  —  if,  indeed,  I  am  a  man,  being  but 
little  taller  than  the  animals.  And  all  these 
things  said  I  to  my  dead  friend  here  in  my 
hand." 

"  'T  is  now  fifteen  years  since  thou  earnest 
with  my  lord  to  Crepuscule  ?  " 

"  Ay,  fifteen.  I  was  then  a  boy  of  about 
such  age.  Fifteen  years  in  Le  Crepuscule  by 
the  sea  !  It  is  a  lifetime." 

Madame  sighed.  Then  her  face  brightened 
again  as  she  looked  down  at  the  dwarf.  "  What 
was  the  life  of  thy  youth,  David  ?  'T  is  a  tale 
I  have  never  heard." 

"  'T  is  but  a  little  tale.  Like  my  dead 
butterfly,  I  wandered.  I  come  of  a  race  of 
dwarfs, — all  straight-backed,  know  you,  and 
not  ill  to  look  upon.  My  father  was  a 
mountebank.  My  mother,  who  measured 
[148] 


SHADOWS 

greater  than  was  customary  among  us,  cooked 
and  sewed  and  travelled  with  us  whithersoever 
we  went  in  our  wagon.  When  I  was  young, 
—  at  the  age  of  five  or  thereabouts,  —  I  be 
gan  to  assist  my  father  in  his  entertainments. 
When  I  was  fifteen  we  were  in  Rennes  for 
the  jousting  season,  and  there  thy  lord  saw 
me,  bought  me,  and  brought  me  back  to  you, 
lady,  to  be  your  merry  jester.  But  indeed  my 
laughter  hath  run  low,  of  late.  Long  years  I 
have  bravely  jested  through ;  but  now  the  Twi 
light  spell  is  creeping  over  me,  and  merriment 
rises  no  more  in  my  heart.  Indeed,  I  question 
if  I  should  not  beg  leave  of  thee  to  go  forth 
into  the  world  again  for  a  little  time,  to  learn 
once  more  the  song  of  joy.  Yet  when  thou 
art  near,  and  I  look  out  upon  the  sea,  and 
behold  the  sun  lifting  his  glory  out  of  the 
eastern  hills,  I  ever  think  I  cannot  go,  —  I 
cannot  leave  this  gentle  home  of  melancholy." 
"  Thou  art  free,  David,  if  freedom  is  mine 
to  bestow  upon  thee.  Indeed,  I  could  not 
ask  that  any  one  remain  in  this  sad  and  quiet 
place,  of  any  than  his  own  will.  Go  thou 
forth  into  the  world  !  Go  forth  to  joy  and 
life  and  laughter.  Fill  thy  little  heart  again 
[149] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


with  jests.  Forget  the  brooding  silence  of 
Le  Crepuscule,  and  laugh  through  the  broad 
world  to  thy  heart's  content.  Yet  we  shall 
miss  thee  sorely,  little  man." 

Madame  stopped  speaking,  and  there  was 
a  pause.  David  seemed  to  have  no  response 
to  make  to  her  words.  Instead  he  bent  over 
the  earth,  digging  a  little  hole  in  the  sod. 
Into  this  he  laid  the  dead  form  of  his  white 
butterfly.  When  he  had  covered  it  from 
sight  with  the  black  earth,  and  patted  a  little 
earthen  mound  over  it,  he  rose  to  his  feet 
with  an  exaggerated  sigh. 

"  So  I  bury  my  friend  —  and  my  freedom. 
My  desire  is  dead,  Madame  Eleanore,  with 
my  freedom.  I  will  remain  here  among  you 
women-folk,  and  keep  you  sad  company  or 
merry  as  you  demand.  Look  !  The  rim  of 
the  sun  is  pushing  over  the  line  of  the  dis 
tant  trees!" 

"  Yea,  it  is  there  —  far  away  —  in  the  land 
where  Laure  may  be,  deserted,  mayhap,  and 
a  wanderer,  cast  out  from  every  dwelling  that 
she  enters! " 

Eleanore  whispered  these  words,  more  to 
herself  than  to  David.  They  were  an  expres- 
[150] 


SHADOWS 

sion  of  her  eternal  thought.  The  dwarf 
heard  them,  and  sought  some  comfort  for 
her.  But  her  expression  forbade  comfort ; 
and,  in  the  end,  he  did  not  speak  at  all. 
The  two  of  them  stood  side  by  side  and 
watched  the  sun  come  up  the  heavens.  Pres 
ently  the  Castle  awoke,  and  shortly  Alixe  came 
out  to  the  field  to  feed  the  young  niais  and 
the  mother-birds  in  the  falcon-nests.  So  Elea- 
nore,  when  she  had  given  the  young  girl  greet 
ing,  returned  to  her  solitude  in  the  Castle, 
finding  her  heart  in  some  part  relieved  of  its 
immediate  burden. 

One  by  one  the  lengthening  days  passed. 
June  came  into  the  world,  and  palpitated,  and 
glowed  with  glory  and  fire,  and  then  died. 
During  this  time  not  a  word  had  come  from 
distant  Rennes  to  tell  the  Lady  of  Crepuscule 
how  Gerault  fared.  The  midsummer  month 
came  in,  and  the  young  men  and  maidens  of 
the  Castle  grew  gay  with  the  heat,  and  made 
riotous  expenditure  of  the  riches  of  Nature. 
That  year  the  whole  earth  seemed  a  tangle 
of  flowers  and  rich  meadow-grass,  with  which 
young  demoiselles  played  havoc,  while  the 
squires  and  henchmen  hawked  and  hunted  and 
[151] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

drank  deep.  These  days  stirred  Eleanore's 
heart  once  more  to  love  of  life,  and  woke 
the  sleeping  soul  of  Alixe  to  strange  fits  of 
passionate  yearning  after  unattainable  ideals. 
The  living  earth  brought  fire  to  every  soul, 
and  the  pinched  melancholy  of  winter  was 
dead  and  forgotten. 

On  the  night  of  the  seventh  of  July  the 
Castle  sat  unusually  late  at  meat,  for  the 
Bishop  had  arrived  unexpectedly,  and,  being 
in  a  merry  mood,  deigned  to  entertain  the 
whole  Castle  with  tales  and  jests.  Just  in 
the  middle  of  a  story  of  Church  militant  in 
the  war  of  the  three  Jeannes,  there  came  the 
grating  noise  of  the  lowering  drawbridge",  a 
faint  echo  of  shouts  from  the  men-at-arms  in 
the  watch-tower,  and  the  clatter  of  swift  hoofs 
over  the  courtyard  stones.  Half  a  dozen 
henchmen  ran  to  open  the  great  door,  while 
Eleanore  rose  with  difficulty  to  her  feet.  Her 
heart  had  suddenly  come  into  her  throat,  and 
she  had  turned  deathly  white  with  an  unex 
pressed  hope  and  an  inarticulate  fear.  There 
was  a  little  pause.  The  new-comer  was  dis 
mounting.  Then,  after  what  had  seemed  a 
year  of  waiting,  Courtoise  walked  into  the 
[152] 


SHADOWS 

hall,  advanced  to  his  liege  lady,  and  bent 
the  knee. 

"  Courtoise  !  "  gasped  Eleanore,  faintly. 
"  Courtoise  —  thy  message  !  " 

"  Madame,"  he  cried,  "  I  bring  joyful  tid 
ings  from  my  lord  !  He  sends  thee  health, 
greeting,  and  duty,  and  prays  you  to  pre 
pare  the  Castle  for  a  great  feast ;  for  in  a 
week's  time  he  brings  home  his  bride  from 
Rennes ! " 


[153] 


CHAPTER  SIX 

A   LOVE-STRAIN 


ATE  that  night,  when  the 
little  throng  below  had  been 
as  nearly  satisfied  with  infor 
mation  concerning  the  great 
event  as  three  poor  hours  of 
steady  talking  from  Courtoise 
could  make  them,  Eleanore  sat  in  her  own 
room  alone  with  the  messenger,  there  to  learn 
those  intimate  details  of  Gerault's  wooing, 
that  none  but  her  had  right  to  know.  She 
questioned  Courtoise  eagerly,  earnestly,  re 
peatedly,  with  such  yearning  in  her  eyes  that 
the  young  squire's  heart  smote  him  to  see  what 
her  loneliness  had  been. 

"Tell  me  again,  Courtoise,  yet  once  again  ! 
She  is  fair,  this  maid  ?  " 

"  As  fair  as  a  rose,  madame  ;  her  skin  com 
posed  of  pink  and  white,  so  cunningly  mingled 
[154] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 


that  none  can  judge  which  hath  most  play 
upon  it.  And  her  eyes  are  blue  like  a  mid 
summer  sky ;  and  she  hath  clouds  of  hair  that 
glisten  like  meshes  of  sun-threads,  crowning 
her." 

"  And  she  is  small  and  delicately  formed  ?  " 

"  She  is  slender  and  fragile ;  yet  is  she  in  no 
way  sickly  of  body." 

"  And  her  name,"  went  on  madame,  mus 
ingly,  "  is  Lenore  !  Is  that  not  a  strange  thing, 
Courtoise  ?  Is 't  not  strange  that  a  second 
time  this  name  should  have  entered  so  deeply 
into  the  life  of  thy  lord  ?  Was  he  glad  that 
it  so  chanced,  Courtoise;  or  did  he  hesitate  to 
pronounce  it  again  ?  " 

"  I  know  not  if  it  troubled  him  at  first, 
madame.  But  this  I  know  :  that  he  is  happy 
in  her." 

"  Then  the  dear  God  be  thanked  !  I  ask  no 
more.  Ah  !  It  seems  that  at  last  I  can  pray 
again  with  an  open  heart.  'T  will  be  the  first 
time  since  —  since  —  "  Suddenly  Eleanore  be 
gan  to  tremble.  "  Courtoise,"  she  whispered, 
pale  with  dread,  "  hath  thy  lord  heard  —  of 
—  of  Laure's  flight?  " 

Courtoise  bent  his  head,  answering  in  a 
[155] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

strained  voice  :  "  My  lord  had  news  of —  of 
the  flight  late  in  the  month  of  March.  Mon- 
seigneur  de  St.  Nazaire  sent  us  the  word  of  it, 
and  for  many  weeks  my  lord  hunted  the  coun 
try  over  for  a  trace  of  her.  And  when  he 
found  her  not,  nor  any  word  of  her,  he  for 
bore,  in  his  grief,  to  write  to  thee,  dear  lady, 
lest  he  should  cause  thy  tears  to  flow  again." 

"  I  thank  the  good  God  that  he  knows  !  " 
murmured  Eleanore.  "  It  had  been  more  than 
I  could  bear  that  Gerault  should  come  home 
to  find  his  wedding  feast  blackened  with  a  new- 
learned  shame." 

"  Yea,  Lady  Eleanore." 

"  And  so  now,  Courtoise,  go  thou  to  thy 
rest ;  for  I  have  kept  thee  long,  and  thou  'rt 
very  weary.  And  on  the  morrow  there  must 
be  a  beginning  of  making  the  Castle  bravely 
gay  for  the  home-coming  of  its  lord  and  its 
bride.  Likewise,  on  the  morrow  thou  must 
tell  me  more  of  the  young  Lenore,  my  daugh 
ter." 

Courtoise    smiled   wearily,    and    then,    with 

proper  obeisance,  hurried  off  to  his  own  room, 

a  little  triangular  closet  opening  into  Gerault's 

old   bedroom  on  the  first  floor.     When   the 

[156] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 

KSSS=SSSBE=S33SSSS5S=£as=&3S 

squire  was  gone,  his  liege  lady  also  laid  her 
down;  and  for  the  first  time  in  many  months 
sank  easily  to  sleep.  For  happiness  is  the  best 
of  doctors,  and  this  that  had  come  to  her  was 
a  greater  happiness  than  Eleanore  had  thought 
ever  to  know  again. 

Through  the  next  week  the  very  dogs  about 
the  Castle  caught  the  air  of  bustle  and  eager 
life  that  had  laid  hold  of  it.  Never,  since 
the  days  of  the  old  lord  and  his  crews  of  drink 
ing  barons,  had  Le  Crepuscule  shown  such 
symptoms  of  gayety.  Every  scullion  scam 
pered  about  his  pots  and  kettles  as  if  an  army 
of  Brittany  depended  on  him  for  nourishment. 
The  henchmen  hurried  about,  polishing  their 
armor  and  their  steel  trappings  till  the  keep 
glittered  as  with  many  mirrors,  and  they  broke 
off  from  this  labor  now  and  then  to  see  that 
the  stable-boys  were  at  work  on  the  proper 
horses  or  to  dissolve  into  thunderous  roars 
of  laughter  at  a  neighbor's  jest.  The  young 
demoiselles  were  giddy  with  excitement.  They 
pricked  their  fingers  with  spindles,  they  broke 
innumerable  threads  on  the  wheels,  they  stopped 
the  loom  to  dance  or  sing  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning  ;  and  while  they  were  arranging  the 
[157] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

rooms  where  the  train  of  the  young  bride  were 
to  lodge,  they  gossiped  so  ardently  over  possible 
future   gayeties   that  their  very  tongues   were 
like  to  drop  off  with   weariness.     As    for   the 
squires,  all  five  of  them,  headed  by  Courtoise} 
were   to   ride   out  to   Croitot    on   the   Rennes 
road,    as    an    additional    escort    for    Seigneur 
Gerault.     And  the  parade  they  made  over  this 
matter  was  more  than   Montfort   had   for  his 
coronation  at  Rennes  when  the  great  war  ended. 
There  were,  however,  three   silent  workers 
in  the  Castle  who  did  more  than  all  the  rest 
together;    and  they  were  silent  only   because 
their  hearts  were  too  full  for  speech.     These 
were    madame,  Alixe,  and    David    the    dwarf. 
While  the  little  man  worked  at  the  decoration 
of  the  chapel,  the  women  adorned  the  bridal 
chamber ;  and  in  all  that  week  of  preparation, 
not  a  soul   save  these  two  set  foot  over  that 
sacred  threshold.       Madame  had  selected  the 
room.    It  was  not  Gerault's  usual  chamber,  but 
one  on  the  second  floor,  on  the  northwest  cor 
ner   of  the   Castle,  separated   from   madame's 
room  only  by  the  place  in  which   Laure  had 
slept    of  old,   and   which   madame    now   kept 
closed  to  all  save  herself. 
[158J 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 

gS?S?5?Sap-S?ggrS5SSS^gg£-Sa£ 

For  the  adornment  of  Gerault's  and  Lenore's 
apartment,  madame  brought  out  the  old  his 
toric  tapestries,  embroideries,  and  precious  silken 
hangings  that  had  been  for  years  stowed  away 
in  great  chests  in  the  spinning-room.  The 
bed  was  hung  with  curtains  in  which  were 
woven  illustrations  of  the  "  Romant  of  the 
Rose,"  a  poem  that  had  once  been  much  re 
cited  in  Le  Crepuscule.  On  the  walls  were 
great  squares  of  tapestry  representing  the 
battles  of  the  family  of  Montfort.  On  the 
floor  were  two  or  three  strips  of  precious 
brocade,  brought  out  of  the  East  a  century 
before  by  some  crusading  lord.  Finished,  the 
room  looked  very  rich,  but  very  sombre ;  and, 
this  being  the  fashion  of  the  times,  it  was  satis 
factory  to  all  that  saw  it.  Eleanore  only,  with 
eyes  new-opened  by  the  thought  of  approach 
ing  happiness,  feared  the  room  a  little  dark, 
a  little  heavy  for  the  reception  of  so  delicate 
a  creature  as  the  young  Lenore.  But  every 
one  else  in  the  Castle  was  in  such  delight  over 
its  appearance  that  she  left  it  as  it  was.  Mean 
time  the  lower  hall  was  hung  with  banners  and 
scarred  pennants  and  gay  streamers  ;  and  then 
the  pillars  were  wreathed  with  greenery  and 
[159] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TV/ILIGHT 


flowers  till  the  still,  gray  place  was  all  trans 
formed,  and  resembled  a  triumphal  hall  awaiting 
the  coming  of  a  conqueror. 

Thus  the  week  of  waiting  passed  merrily  and 
rapidly  away,  and  the  day  of  the  departure  of 
Courtoise  and  the  squires  for  Croitot  speedily 
arrived.  With  them  also  went  a  picked  half- 
dozen  men-at-arms,  who  were  bursting  with 
pride  at  this  honor  done  their  brilliant  steel 
and  smooth-flanked  horses.  After  their  going, 
when  everything  in  the  Castle  was  in  readiness 
for  the  reception,  a  little  wave  of  reaction  set 
in  among  those  left  at  home.  Eleanore  re 
tired  to  commune  with  her  own  happy  mind. 
David  sought  solitude  in  which  to  arrange  a 
programme  of  welcome.  And  Alixe,  seized 
with  a  sudden  mood  of  misery,  fled  away  to 
a  certain  cave  in  the  base  of  the  Castle  cliff, 
and  here  wept  and  raged  by  herself,  for  some 
undefined  reason,  till  her  tears  cleared  the 
mists  from  her  soul,  and  she  was  herself  again. 
Still,  as  she  returned  to  the  Castle,  she  knew 
that  there  remained  a  bitterness  in  her  heart. 
Eleanore,  who  had  long  ago  come  to  mean 
mother  to  her,  had,  in  the  last  month  or  two, 
for  the  first  time  given  her  almost  a  mother- 
[160] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 

S=SSS=S«5SSSSSS=SSS=S2S=S=S 

love,  that  had  fed  Alixe's  hungry  heart  as  the 
body  of  the  Lord  had  never  fed  her  soul. 
And  now  this  love  was  to  be  taken  away 
again.  A  real  daughter  was  coming  into  the 
household,  a  daughter  by  the  marriage  of  the 
Seigneur ;  and  this,  Alixe  knew,  must  be  a 
closer  tie  than  any  of  time  or  custom.  She 
must  go  back  to  her  old  place,  the  place  she 
had  held  in  the  days  of  Laure ;  but  she  could 
never  hope  to  find  in  the  stranger  the  beauti 
ful  friendship  that  had  existed  between  her  and 
her  foster-sister. 

That  evening  was  a  quiet  one  in  the  Castle. 
Monseigneur  of  St.  Nazaire  had  arrived  in  the 
afternoon ;  but  he  seemed  wearier  than  his 
wont,  and,  out  of  consideration  for  him,  Elea- 
nore  ordered  the  general  retirement  at  an  early 
hour. 

The  next  day,  the  great  day,  dawned  over 
Le  Crepuscule,  red  and  clear  and  intensely  hot. 
Every  one  was  up  before  the  sun ;  and  when 
fast  had  been  broken  and  prayer  said  in  the 
chapel,  every  one  went  forth  to  the  meadow, 
some  even  down  to  the  moor,  half  a  mile 
below  the  moat,  to  gather  flowers  to  be  scat 
tered  in  the  courtyard  for  the  coming  of  the 
[  11 1  [  161  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

bride.  The  party  was  expected  to  arrive  by 
noon  at  latest ;  and,  as  the  morning  waned, 
Eleanore  found  herself  uncontrollably  nervous. 
Alixe  and  David  both  stood  in  the  watch-tower, 
looking  for  the  first  sign  of  horses  and  banners 
on  the  edge  of  the  forest  at  the  foot  of  the  long 
hill.  Noon  passed,  and  the  earliest  hour  of 
afternoon,  and  the  Castle  was  on  tiptoe  with 
excitement.  At  two  o'clock  came  a  cry  from 
Alixe,  in  the  tower.  Down  the  hill,  round  the 
sweep  in  the  road,  was  the  flutter  of  a  blue  and 
white  pennant,  presently  flanked  by  a  longer 
one  of  gray.  There  was  a  pause  of  two  or 
three  moments.  Then  the  trumpeters  dashed 
out  from  the  keep,  ranged  up  before  their  cap 
tain,  and  blew  a  quick,  triumphal,  if  somewhat 
jerky,  fanfare.  There  was  an  outpouring  of 
retainers  into  the  courtyard,  and  presently, 
from  far  away,  came  the  faint  sounds  of  an 
answering  blast  from  Gerault's  heralds.  As 
this  died  away,  a  great  shout  of  excitement  and 
delight  arose  from  the  waiting  company,  now 
massed  about  the  flower-strewn  drawbridge, 
and  only  at  this  time  Madame  Eleanore  came 
out  of  the  Castle. 

Many  eyes  were    turned    upon    her  as  she 
[162] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 

crossed  the  courtyard,  bearing  herself  as  roy 
ally  as  a  princess.  She  was  garbed  in  flowing 
robes  of  damask,  white,  and  olive  green,  silver- 
studded,  and  her  head  was  dressed  in  those 
great  horns  so  much  in  fashion  at  this  time, 
but  seldom  affected  by  her,  and  now  lending 
an  unrivalled  majesty  to  her  appearance. 

Madame  took  her  place  at  the  right  of  the 
drawbridge,  and,  like  all  the  throng,  strained 
her  eyes  toward  the  approaching  cavalcade 
that  contained  the  future  of  Le  Crepuscule. 
Apparently  madame  was  very  calm.  In  reality 
her  heart  beat  so  that  it  was  like  to  suffocate 
her,  for  now  Gerault's  form  took  on  distinct 
shape  before  her  eyes.  The  sun  shot  serpents 
of  light  around  his  helmet  and  his  steel- 
encased  arms,  while  over  his  body-pieces  he 
wore  the  silken  surcoat  of  pale  gray,  embroi 
dered  with  the  arms  of  his  Castle.  Gerault's 
lance,  held  in  rest,  fluttered  a  pennant  of  azure 
and  white,  the  colors  of  his  lady ;  and  Cour- 
toise,  who  rode  just  behind  his  master,  carried 
the  gray  streamer  of  Le  Crepuscule. 

Amid  a  tumult  of  blaring  trumpets,  vigorous 
shouting,  and  eager  choruses  of  welcome  and 
greeting,  the  Lord  of  Crepuscule,  with  his 
[163] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

bride  on  her  white  palfrey  beside  him,  rode 
across  the  drawbridge  of  the  Twilight  Castle. 
Just  inside  the  courtyard  Gerault  halted,  leaped 
from  his  horse,  and  ran  quickly  to  embrace  his 
mother.  When  he  had  held  her  for  a  moment 
in  his  arms,  he  turned,  lifted  his  lady  from  her 
horse,  and,  amid  an  embarrassing  silence  of 
curiosity,  led  the  young  girl  up  to  madame. 

"In  the  name  of  Le  Crepuscule  and  of  its 
lord,  I  bid  thee  welcome  to  this  Castle,  my 
daughter  !  Good  people,  give  greeting  to  your 
lady ! " 

Men  and  maidens,  serving-maids  and  hench 
men,  still  gazing  wide-eyed  at  the  figure  of  the 
Seigneur's  wife,  sent  forth  an  inarticulate  buzz 
of  welcome  and  of  admiration  ;  and,  when  it  had 
died  away,  Gerault  took  his  bride  by  the  hand, 
and,  with  Eleanore  upon  the  other  side,  moved 
slowly  across  the  courtyard  toward  the  Castle 
doorway,  where  now  stood  the  Bishop  of  St. 
Nazaire,  waiting  to  add  his  welcome  to  the 
newly  wed.  Nor  did  the  Bishop  refrain  from 
a  little  exclamation  of  pleasure  at  sight  of  the 
young  wife,  as  she  sank  upon  her  knees  before 
his  mitre,  to  receive  a  blessing. 

A  few  moments  later  the  whole  company 
[164] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 


crowded  into  the  brilliantly  decorated  hall  and 
moved  about,  each  selecting  a  desired  place  at 
the  great  horse-shoe  table  ready  prepared  for 
the  feast.  Gerault  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  looking  about  him  in  surprise 
and  pleasure  at  the  preparations  made  to  do 
him  honor.  Presently,  however,  he  turned  to 
his  mother,  who  stood  close  at  his  elbow,  and 
said,  after  a  second's  hesitation  :  "  I  do  not 
see  Alixe,  madame.  Is  she  not  here  in  the 
Castle  ?  " 

Eleanore  looked  about  her  in  some  surprise. 
"  Hast  not  seen  her  ?  Where  hath  she  been  ? 
Ah,  yes,  there  she  stands,  in  yonder  corner. 
Alixe!  Hither!" 

"  Alixe  !  "  echoed  Gerault ;  and  strode  to 
where  she  stood,  half  concealed,  between  the 
staircase  and  the  chapel  door,  her  head  droop 
ing,  her  eyes  cast  down. 

"  Come,  Alixe,  and  greet  Lenore.  She  hath 
heard  much  of  thee,  and  I  would  have  you 
friends,  for  you  are  both  young,  and  you  must 
be  good  companions  here  together."  So  he 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  her,  and  led  her  out 
to  where  Eleanore  and  the  young  wife  stood 
waiting. 

[165] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  Lenore,  this  is  my  foster-sister.  La  Rieuse 
have  we  called  her,  and  she  is  well  named. 
Give  her  greeting  —  "  Gerault  came  to  rather 
a  halting  pause  ;  for  the  attitude  of  the  two 
women  nonplussed  him. 

Lenore  stood  motionless,  suddenly  putting 
on  a  little  dress  of  dignity,  and  looking  stead 
fastly  into  the  dark  face  of  the  other  girl. 
Alixe,  anything  but  laughing  now,  was  absorb 
ing,  detail  by  detail,  the  delicate  and  exquisite 
personality  of  Gerault's  bride.  More  fairy-like 
than  human  she  seemed,  with  her  slender, 
beautifully  curved  child's  figure,  her  face  neither 
white  nor  pink,  but  of  a  transparent,  pearly 
tint  indescribably  ethereal,  in  which  were  set 
great  eyes  of  violet  hue,  and  all  around  which 
floated  her  hair,  —  that  wonderful  hair  that  was, 
indeed,  a  captive  sun-ray.  The  curve  of  Le- 
nore's  lips,  the  turn  of  her  nostril,  the  poise  of 
her  head,  and  the  delicacy  of  her  hands  and 
feet,  all  proclaimed  her  noble  birth.  The  dress 
that  she  wore  set  off  her  beauty  as  pure  gold 
makes  a  gem  more  brilliant.  She  wore  a  loosely 
fitting  bliault  of  greenish  blue,  embroidered  in 
long,  silver  vines,  while  her  undersleeves  and 
yoke  were  of  frosty  cloth  of  silver.  Her  head 
[  166  ] 


A  LOVE-STRAIN 

was  crowned  with  a  simple  circlet  of  gold,  far 
less  lustrous  than  her  hair ;  and  from  it,  at  the 
back,  fell  a  veil  of  silver  tissue  that  touched 
the  hem  of  her  robe.  All  this  dress  was  dis 
ordered  and  dusty  with  long  riding ;  but  the 
carelessness  of  it  seemed  to  become  her  the 
better.  In  the  rich  heat  of  the  July  sun  she 
had  seemed  a  little  too  colorless,  a  little  too 
pale  and  misty,  for  beauty  ;  but  here,  in  the 
cool  shadows  of  the  great  stone  hall,  she  was 
brighter  than  any  angel. 

Alixe  examined  her  long  and  carefully,  to  the 
confusion  of  the  girl,  whose  feeling  of  strange 
ness  and  embarrassment  continually  increased. 
In  the  face  of"  La  Rieuse  "  it  was  easy  to  read 
the  struggle  between  jealousy  and  admiration. 
Alixe  was,  secretly,  a  worshipper  of  beauty ; 
and  beauty  such  as  this  of  Lenore's  she  had 
never  seen  before.  In  the  end  it  triumphed. 
Alixe's  eyes  grew  brighter  and  brighter  as  she 
gazed  ;  and  presently,  when  the  strain  of  silence 
was  not  much  longer  to  be  endured,  there  burst 
from  her  the  involuntary  exclamation, — 
"  God  of  dreams  !  How  art  thou  fair  !  " 
And  from  that  moment  the  allegiance  of 
Alixe  was  fixed.  She  was  on  her  knees  to 
[167] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Lenore,   this    fair  usurper    of  her   place,   this 
Gerault's  bride. 

Presently  the  moving  company  resolved  it 
self  into  order,  and  each  sought  his  place  at  the 
table,  where  the  Seigneur  and  St.  Nazaire  now 
stood  side  by  side,  at  the  head,  with  Lenore 
upon  Gerault's  left  hand,  madame  on  St. 
Nazaire's  right,  and  Alixe  next  madame  and 
opposite  Courtoise,  who  was  placed  beside  the 
bride.  There  was  a  long  Latin  grace  from  the 
Bishop,  and  then  the  feast  began.  It  was  like 
all  the  feasts  of  the  day,  a  matter  of  stuffing  till 
one  could  hold  no  more,  and  then  of  drinking 
till  one  knew  no  more ;  for,  to  the  commoner 
folk,  and  those  below  the  salt,  this  was  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  life.  To  those  for  whom 
the  feast  was  given,  and  to  the  rest  of  the  little 
group  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  whole  busi 
ness  was  sufficiently  tedious :  not  to  say,  how 
ever,  that  monseigneur  and  even  Gerault 
showed  no  symptoms  of  fondness  for  a  morsel 
of  peacock's  breast,  or  a  calf's  head  stuffed 
with  the  brains,  pounded  suet,  and  raisins,  over 
which  was  poured  a  good  brown  gravy.  Cour 
toise  and  Alixe  also  displayed  healthy  appe 
tites.  But  madame  and  Lenore,  whether  from 
[168] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 

^^>;^^^<^g><^^^^s~xs^r<r^fr^gr^r^s 

excitement  or  other  causes,  sat  for  the  most 
part  playing  with  what  was  put  before  them, 
and  eating  nothing. 

After  half  an  hour  at  the  table  Madame 
Eleanore  found  herself  watching,  with  rather 
unexpected  interest,  the  attitude  of  Gerault 
toward  his  wife.  And  she  perceived,  with  a 
kind  of  dull  surprise,  that  his  attentions 
savored  of  perfunctoriness.  The  Seigneur 
failed  in  no  way  to  do  his  lady  courtesy  ;  but 
that  air  of  tender  delight  that  the  personality 
of  the  young  girl  would  be  expected  to  draw 
from  a  young  husband,  was  not  there.  What 
ever  impression  of  indifference  madame  re 
ceived,  however,  she  admitted  no  such  thing 
to  herself.  Her  heart  was  too  full  of  joy  for 
Gerault,  and  for  Le  Crepuscule.  For,  great  as 
had  been  her  hopes  of  her  son's  choice,  her 
dreams  had  never  pictured  a  being  so  rare 
and  so  lovely  as  this  who  was  come  to  dwell 
at  her  side  in  the  gray  and  ancient  Castle. 

As  for  Lenore  herself,  she  seemed  to  see 
nothing  but  devotion  in  Gerault's  attitude 
toward  her.  She  sat  with  a  smile  upon  her 
face,  playing  daintily  with  what  she  -  had  to 
eat,  answering  any  question  or  remark  put 
[169] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

to  her  with  a  straightforwardness  that  had  in 
it  no  taint  of  self-consciousness,  even  address 
ing  a  sentence  or  two  of  her  own  to  Courtoise 
on  her  right ;  but  at  the  same  time  holding 
all  heart  and  soul  for  Gerault.  The  Seigneur 
did  not  speak  much  with  his  wife,  but  answered 
her  modest  glances  with  an  air  of  mild  indul 
gence,  taking  small  notice  of  anything  that 
went  on  round  him  save  the  keen  looks  now 
and  then  shot  from  the  scintillating  green  eyes 
of  Alixe.  Of  all  the  tableful,  Alixe  was  the 
only  one  that  found  any  food  for  thought 
in  the  situation  before  her  ;  and,  surprisingly 
enough,  the  key  to  her  reflections  lay  in  the 
curious  behavior  of  Courtoise,  who,  as  time 
went  on,  became  so  uneasy,  so  fidgety,  so  rest 
less,  that  Gerault  finally  leaned  over  the  table 
and  asked  him  rather  sharply  if  he  were  ill. 

In  the  course  of  time,  however,  the  last  jack 
was  emptied,  the  last  song  sung,  the  last 
questionable  story  told.  Monseigneur  de  St. 
Nazaire  rose  and  repeated  the  ending  grace, 
and  then  the  whole  drowsy,  witless  company 
followed  him  into  the  glowing  chapel,  where 
a  short  mass  was  performed.  Lenore  and 
Gerault  knelt  side  by  side  to  the  right  of  the 
[170] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 


altar,  with  Eleanore  a  little  behind  them,  where 
she  could  watch  the  bright  candle-rays  vie 
with  the  radiance  of  Lenore's  golden  hair, 
and  see  where  the  silvery  bridal  robe  over 
lapped  a  little  the  edge  of  the  gray  surcoat  of 
Le  Crepuscule,  that  swept  the  floor  beside  it. 
The  mother-eyes  were  all  for  the  girlish  form 
of  the  new  daughter ;  and  her  heart  went  out 
again  to  Gerault,  who  had  brought  this  fairy 
creature  to  Le  Crepuscule,  in  place  of  her  who 
had  been  so  terribly  mourned. 

Lenore  listened  to  the  repetition  of  the 
mass  with  a  reverent  air,  but  without  much 
thinking  of  the  familiar  form.  Her  mind  was 
busy  with  thoughts  of  these  new  surround 
ings  and  the  faces  of  the  new  vassals  and 
companions.  Gerault,  her  beloved,  was  at 
her  side ;  the  great  silver  crucifix  that  hung 
over  the  altar  gave  her  a  sense  of  comfort  and 
protection,  and  she  found  a  restful  pleasure  in 
the  tones  of  the  Bishop's  voice.  The  bright 
candle-light  that  shone  into  her  eyes  produced 
in  her  a  semi-hypnotic  state,  and  she  seemed 
to  have  knelt  there  at  the  altar  but  three  or 
four  minutes  when  the  words  of  the  benedic 
tion  fell  upon  her  ears,  and  presently  the 
[171] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


whole  company  was  trooping  out  into  the 
great  hall,  whence  all  signs  of  the  feast  had 
been  removed. 

In  the  same  dreamlike  way,  Lenore  went 
with  her  husband  and  madame  upstairs,  to 
the  room  that  had  been  prepared  for  her  and 
Gerault.  Here  her  two  demoiselles  were  al 
ready  unpacking  the  coffer  which  had  come 
from  Rennes  with  them.  And  here  she  re 
moved  her  travel-stained  garments,  bathed  the 
dust  from  her  face  and  arms,  was  combed  and 
perfumed  like  the  great  lady  she  had  become, 
and  lay  down  to  rest  for  a  little  time  in  the 
twilight,  with  new  ministers  to  her  comfort  all 
about  her.  Later,  as  it  grew  dark,  she  dressed 
again  and  descended  to  the  great  hall,  where 
further  merriment  was  in  progress. 

The  demoiselles  and  squires  of  the  Castle 
were  now  holding  high  revel,  and  their  games 
caused  the  old  stone  walls  to  echo  with  laugh 
ter  and  shrieks  of  delight.  In  one  corner  of 
the  room  madame  and  the  Bishop  sat  together 
over  a  game  of  chess.  Gerault  was  near  them, 
where  he  could  watch  the  battle ;  but  his  eyes 
were  often  to  be  seen  following  the  light  figure 
of  Lenore  through  the  mazes  of  the  dances  and 
[172] 


A    LOVE-STRAIN 

^^3?^mgvsT<ry^<?^g^~<^-g>g>q^s--s 

games  in  which  she  so  eagerly  joined.  The 
sports  in  which  these  maidens  and  young  men 
grown  indulged,  were  commonly  played  by 
older  folk  throughout  France,  and  have  de 
scended  almost  intact  to  the  children  of  a  more 
advanced  and  less  light-hearted  age.  Lenore 
entered  into  the  play  with  a  pleasure  too  un 
conscious  not  to  be  genuine.  She  laughed  and 
sang  and  chattered,  and  put  herself  at  home 
with  every  one.  She  was  soon  the  leading 
spirit  of  the  company,  as  she  had  been  wont 
to  be  in  her  own  home.  The  games  were  in 
numerable  :  Pantouffle,  Pince-M'erille^  Brie,  £>ui 
Fery,  Le  Roi  qui  ne  Ment  pas,  and  a  dozen 
others.  And  were  there  a  forfeit  to  be  paid 
in  the  shape  of  a  kiss,  she  instantly  deserted 
Courtoise  and  David,  who,  enraptured  with 
her  youth  and  gayety,  kept  close  on  either 
side  of  her,  and  delivered  it  with  shy  delight 
to  Gerault,  who  scarcely  appeared  to  appre 
ciate  the  gifts  he  got. 

In  the  course  of  time  a  "  Ribbon  Dance" 
was  ordered,  and  madame  and  monseigneur 
actually  left  their  game  to  lead  it,  drawing 
Gerault  with  them  into  the  sport.  Obedi 
ently  he  gave  one  hand  to  Lenore,  the  other 
[173] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

to  Alixe,  and  went  through  the  dance  with 
apathetic  grace,  bringing  by  his  half  uncon 
scious  manner  the  first  chill  upon  Lenore's 
happy  evening.  This  was,  however,  the  end 
of  the  amusement ;  and  when  the  flushed  and 
panting  company  finally  halted,  Gerault  at  once 
drew  his  wife  to  madame's  side,  himself  saluted 
his  mother,  and  then  followed  Lenore  up  the 
torchlit  stairs.  In  ten  minutes  the  whole 
company  had  dispersed,  and  Eleanore  remained 
alone  in  the  great  hall. 

When  she  had  extinguished  all  the  lights 
below,  madame  passed  up  the  stairs,  putting 
out  the  smoking  torches  as  she  went,  and, 
reaching  the  upper  hall,  went  immediately  to 
her  own  bedroom.  Here  she  slipped  off  the 
heavy  mantle  and  the  modified  "  cote-hardi." 
Then,  clad  only  in  a  long,  light,  damask  tunic, 
she  went  over  to  one  of  the  wide-open  west 
windows,  and,  leaning  across  its  sill,  looked 
out  upon  the  vasty,  murmurous,  summer  sea. 
Low  on  the  horizon,  among  a  group  of  faint 
clustering  stars,  swung  the  crescent  moon,  which 
was  reflected  in  the  smooth  surface  of  a  distant 
wave.  A  great,  fresh,  salt  breath  came  up  like 
a  tonic  through  the  wilted  air.  The  voice  of 
[174] 


A   LOVE-STRAIN 


the  sea  was  infinitely  soothing.  Eleanore  lis 
tened  to  it  eagerly,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes 
wandering  along  that  distant  wave-line ;  her 
thoughts  almost  as  far  away.  Presently  the 
door  of  her  room  opened,  softly;  and  some 
one  paused  upon  the  threshold.  Instinctively 
she  knew  who  it  was  that  entered.  Half  turn 
ing,  she  said  gently,  — 

"  Thou  'rt  come  here,  Gerault  ?  " 
Her  son  came  forward  slowly,  halted  a  few 
steps  away,  and  held  out  one  hand  to  her. 
She  went  to  him  and  took  it,  wondering  a 
little  at  his  manner,  but  not  questioning  him. 
Quietly  she  drew  the  young  man  to  the 
window  where  she  had  been  ;  and  both  stood 
there  and  looked  out  upon  the  scene.  They 
were  silent  for  a  long  time.  It  was  intensely 
difficult  for  Gerault  to  speak ;  and  madame 
knew  not  how  to  help  him.  At  length,  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  slightly  strained,  he  asked : 
"  Thou  'rt  pleased  with  her  ?  Thou  'rt  satis 
fied,  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Gerault !  Gerault !  She  is  so  fair,  so 
delicate,  so  like  some  faery  child !  I  almost 
fear  to  see  her  beauty  fade  in  the  shadow 
of  these  gray  walls." 

[175] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  And  will  she  —  Lenore  —  help  thee,  in 
a  way,  to  forget  thy  grief  in  Laure  ?  " 

Eleanore  gave  a  sudden,  involuntary  sob  ; 
for  none  had  pronounced  that  name  to  her 
since  the  early  spring.  The  sob  was  answer 
enough  to  Gerault's  question.  But  in  a 
moment  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  per 
fectly  controlled :  "  Methinks  I  love  her,  thy 
lady,  already.  Ah,  my  son,  she  is  very  sweet ! 
Very,  very  sweet  and  fair  !  " 


[176] 


CHAPTER 


THE   LOST  LENORE 


JHEN  Gerault  left  her  to  go 
to  his  mother's  room,  on  that 
first  evening  in  the  Castle  that 
was  to  be  her  home,  Lenore 
was  still  fully  dressed.  As 
soon  as  she  was  alone,  how 
ever,  she  made  herself  ready  for  the  night ;  and 
then,  wrapping  herself  about  in  her  long  day- 
mantle,  went  to  a  window  overlooking  the  sea, 
and  sat  there  waiting  for  her  lord's  return. 
Now  that  the  excitement  of  the  day,  of  the 
arrival,  of  meeting  so  many  new  people,  all 
eager  to  make  her  welcome,  was  over,  Lenore 
began  to  feel  herself  very  weary,  a  little  home 
sick,  a  little  wistful,  and  tremulously  eager  for 
Gerault's  speedy  return.  She  clung  to  the 
thought  of  him  and  her  newly  risen  love,  with 
pathetic  anxiety.  Was  it  not  lawful  and  right 
[12]  [177] 


that  she  should  love  him?  Was  it  not  equally 
lawful  and  therefore  equally  certain  that  he 
must  love  her?  She  knew  little  enough  of 
love  and  of  men,  young  Lenore ;  yet  this  idea 
came  to  her  instinctively,  and  it  seemed  im 
possible  that  it  could  be  otherwise.  It  was  so 
recently  that  she  had  been  a  little  girl  in  all 
her  thoughts  and  pleasures  and  habits,  that 
this  sudden  transition  to  the  dignified  estate 
of  wifehood  had  left  her  singularly  helpless, 
singularly  dependent  on  the  man  whom  she 
had  married  out  of  duty  and  fallen  in  love 
with  afterwards,  on  the  way  from  Rennes. 
Gerault  helped  her,  in  his  way.  He  was 
kind,  he  was  gentle,  was  solicitous  for  her 
comfort,  and  required  of  her  nothing  but  a 
quiet  demeanor.  But  that  he  failed  in  some 
way  to  give  her  what  was  her  due,  the  young 
girl  rather  felt  than  knew. 

While  she  waited  here  alone,  looking  out 
upon  the  lonely  sea,  that  was  so  new  and 
so  wonderful  a  sight  to  her,  the  Lady  Lenore 
bitterly  regretted  and  took  herself  to  task  for 
her  gayety  of  the  evening.  The  silly  games 
that  she  had  once  so  loved  to  play  —  alas  ! 
he  had  not  joined  in  them,  doubtless  thought 
[178] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

them  trivial  and  unbecoming  in  a  woman 
grown  and  married  !  She  had  made  herself 
a  fool  before  him  !  He  was  older  than  she, 
and  wiser,  and  a  gallant  knight.  Lenore's 
cheeks  flushed  with  pride  as  she  remembered 
how  he  could  joust  and  tilt  at  the  ring.  She 
remembered  when  she  had  first  seen  him, 
from  the  gallery  of  the  list  at  Rennes,  when 
he  unseated  the  Seigneur  Geoffrey  Cartel. 
This  lordly  sport  was  as  simple  to  him  as 
her  games  to  her.  Little  wonder  that  she 
had  exhausted  his  patience !  And  yet  —  if 
he  would  but  come  to  her  now !  She  was 
so  sadly  weary ;  and  it  grew  so  late.  Her 
little  body  ached,  her  temples  throbbed,  her 
eyes  burned  with  the  past  glare  of  the  sun 
on  the  white  dust,  and  the  recent  flickering 
light  of  the  torches.  If  he  would  but  come 
back,  and  forgive  her  her  childishness,  and 
kiss  her  before  she  slept,  she  would  be  very 
happy. 

In  point  of  fact  Gerault  did  come  soon. 
Knowing  that  Lenore  must  be  weary,  he  re 
mained  but  a  short  time  with  his  mother, 
and  returned  immediately  to  his  wife.  The 
moment  that  he  entered  the  room,  Lenore 
[179] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

rg^ST7'<rs?rstr>*vg^*r<^"g*¥^y<^<?!*^ 

rose  from  her  place,  and  ran  to  him  with  a 
faint  cry  of  delight. 

"  At  last  thou  art  come  \  Thou  art  come  \  " 
she  said  indistinctly,  not  wanting  him  to  hear 
the  words,  yet  unable  to  keep  from  saying 
them. 

"  And  didst  thou  sit  up  for  me,  child,  and 
thou  so  weary  ?  I  went  but  to  give  my  mother 
good-night,  for  thou  knowest  'tis  long  since  I 
saw  her  last.  She  sent  thee  her  blessing  and 
sweet  rest;  and  my  wish  is  fellow  to  hers. 
Come  now,  child." 

Gerault  lifted  her  up  in  his  arms,  and,  car 
rying  her  to  the  bed,  laid  her  down  in  it,  mantle 
and  all.  In  the  carrying,  Lenore  had  leaned 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  two  tired 
arms  folded  themselves  around  his  neck.  How 
it  was  that  Gerault  felt  no  thrill  at  this  touch  ; 
that  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  him  when  the 
hold  loosened ;  and  how,  though  he  slept  at 
her  side  that  night,  his  dreams,  freer  replica 
of  his  day-thoughts,  were  filled  with  vague 
trouble,  he  himself  could  scarce  have  told ; 
and  yet  it  was  so. 

Next  morning,  however,  Gerault  watched  her 
waken,  looking  as  rosy  and  fresh  as  a  child, 
[180] 


o 


THE    LOST    LENORE 


and  smiling  a  child's  delighted  welcome  at  the 
new  day.  Unquestionably  she  was  a  pleasure 
to  him  at  such  times.  Before  her  marriage  he 
had  liked,  in  thinking  of  her,  to  accentuate  her 
fairy-like  ways,  because  through  them  he  had 
brought  himself  to  marry  her.  And  now  his 
treatment  of  her  resembled  most,  perhaps,  the 
treatment  of  something  very  fine  and  fair, 
something  very  rare  and  delicate  and  generally 
to  be  prized,  but  not  really  belonging  to  him, 
not  essentially  valued  by  him,  or  near  at  all  to 
his  human  heart. 

When  they  were  ready  for  the  day,  the  two 
of  them,  Lenore  and  Gerault,  did  not  linger 
together  in  their  room,  but  descended  imme 
diately  to  the  chapel,  where  morning  prayers 
were  just  beginning.  Every  eye  was  turned 
upon  them  as  they  entered  the  holy  room ; 
and  it  was  as  sunshine  greeting  sunshine  when 
Lenore  faced  the  open  window,  through  which 
poured  the  golden  light  of  July.  Madame's 
heart  swelled  and  beat  fast,  and  that  of  Alixe 
all  but  stopped,  as  each  beheld  the  morning's 
bride  ;  and  they  perceived,  with  a  kind  of  dull 
surprise,  that  Gerault's  face  was  as  dark-browed, 
as  reserved,  as  melancholy  as  ever.  It  seemed 
[181] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

impossible  that  he  should  not  be  moved  to 
new  life  by  the  presence  and  possession  of  so 
fair  a  thing  as  this  Lenore.  Yet  when  the 
devotions  were  at  an  end,  and  the  Castle  house 
hold  rose  and  moved  out  to  where  the  tables 
were  spread  for  the  breaking  of  the  fast,  no  one 
noted  how  the  young  girl's  blue  eyes  glanced 
once  or  twice  a  little  wistfully,  a  little  forlornly, 
up  into  the  unmoved  face  of  her  husband,  and 
that  she  got  therefrom  no  answering  smile. 

In  celebration  of  the  Seigneur's  wedding,  a 
week's  holiday  had  been  declared  for  every 
one  in  the  Castle ;  and  so,  when  the  first  meal 
of  the  day  was  at  an  end,  the  demoiselles,  in 
high  glee  at  escaping  from  the  morning's  toil 
in  the  hot  spinning-room,  gayly  proposed  to 
their  attendant  squires  that  they  repair  at  once 
to  the  open  meadows,  where  there  was  glorious 
opportunity  for  games  and  carols.  Lenore's 
eyes  lighted  with  pleasure  at  this  proposal ;  but 
she  looked  instinctively  at  Gerault,  to  see  if 
his  face  approved  the  plan.  She  found  his 
eyes  upon  her ;  and,  as  he  caught  her  glance, 
he  motioned  her  to  his  side,  and  drew  her 
with  him  a  little  apart  from  the  general  group. 
Then  he  said  to  her  kindly,  - 
[  182] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 


"  Beloved,  I  shall  see  thee  at  noon  meat. 
Courtoise  and  I  go  forth  this  morning  to 
gether  to  try  two  of  the  new  falcons  that  Alixe 
hath  trained.  Thou  'It  fare  gently  here  with  all 
the  demoiselles  and  the  young  squires  ;  and 
see  that  thou  weary  not  thyself  at  play  in  the 
heat.  Till  noon,  my  little  one  !  " 

He  bent  and  touched  his  lips  to  her  hair, — 
that  sunlit  hair,  —  and  then,  as  he  strode  away, 
followed,  but  half  willingly,  by  Courtoise,  Le- 
nore's  head  bent  forward,  and  her  eyes,  that 
for  one  instant  had  brimmed  full,  were  shut 
tight  till  the  unbidden  drops  went  back  again. 
When  she  looked  up  once  more,  Alixe  was  at 
her  side,  and  the  expression  on  the  face  of 
La  Rieuse  was  full  of  unlooked-for  tenderness. 
Lenore,  however,  was  too  proud  for  pity,  and 
in  a  moment  she  smiled,  and  said  bravely  : 

"  My  lord  is  going  a-hawking  with  his 
squire.  Shall  we  to  the  fields  ?  Said  they  not 
that  we  should  go  to  weave  garlands  in  the 
fields  ?  " 

"Yes!    To  the  fields!   To  the  fields  !   Hola, 

David !    We  are  commanded  to  the  fields  by 

our  Queen  of  Delight !  "  called  Alixe,  loudly, 

waving  her  hands  above  her  head,  and  striving 

[183] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

in  every  way  to  gain  the  attention  of  the  com 
pany.  But  in  spite  of  her  efforts,  Gerault's 
departure  was  seen,  and  there  was  a  general 
outcry  of  protest,  which  did  not,  however,  reach 
the  ears  of  the  Seigneur.  Then  Lenore  was 
forced  to  bear  the  comments  of  the  company  : 
their  loudly  expressed  disappointment,  and  the 
unspoken  but  infinitely  more  painful  astonish 
ment  plainly  indicated  in  every  glance.  Never 
theless  the  young  girl  had  in  her  the  instincts 
of  a  fine  race,  and  she  bore  everything  with  a 
heroic  unconcern  that  won  Alixe's  admiration, 
and  so  far  deceived  the  thoughtless  throng  as 
to  bring  her  a  new  accusation  of  indifference  to 
Gerault's  absence. 

To  the  girl-bride  that  morning  passed — 
somehow.  It  was  perhaps  the  bitterest  three 
hours  she  had  ever  endured ;  yet  she  would 
not  confess  her  disappointment  even  to  herself. 
Besides,  was  not  Gerault  coming  home  again  ? 
Had  he  not  said  that  he  would  be  back  at  noon  ? 
Had  he  not  called  her  "  beloved  "  ?  Her  heart 
thrilled  at  the  thought ;  and  she  forgot  the 
fact  that  Gerault  knew  that  she  could  ride  with 
hawk  on  wrist  and  tell  a  fair  quarry  when  she 
saw  it.  She  forgot  that  at  such  times  as  this 
[184] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

even  hawking  will  generally  give  way  to  love ; 
and  that  he  is  a  sorry  bridegroom  that  loves 
his  horse  better  than  his  bride.  Yet  she  for 
gave  him  for  the  time,  and  regained  her  smiles 
until  the  shadow  of  a  new  dread  fell  upon  her. 
She  could  endure  the  morning ;  but  the  after 
noon  ?  Would  he  remain  with  her  through 
the  afternoon  ?  Alas,  here  was  the  terrible 
pity  of  it !  She  could  not  tell. 

However,  this  last  dread  proved  to  be 
groundless.  Gerault  made  no  move  to  leave 
the  Castle  again  that  day.  Perhaps  he  even  felt 
a  little  guilty  of  neglect ;  or  perhaps  her  greeting 
on  his  return  betrayed  to  him  how  she  had 
suffered  through  the  morning.  However  it 
was,  as  soon  as  the  long  dinner  was  at  an  end, 
the  Seigneur  and  his  lady  were  observed  to 
wander  away  into  the  armory,  and  they  sat 
there  together,  on  the  same  settle,  until  the 
shadows  grew  long  in  the  courtyard  and  the 
afternoon  was  nearly  worn  away.  What  they 
said  to  one  another,  or  how  Gerault  entertained 
his  maid,  no  one  knew ;  for,  oddly  enough, 
Courtoise  had  put  himself  on  guard  at  the 
armory  door,  and  would  permit  none  to  venture 
so  much  as  a  peep  into  the  room  on  which  his 
[185] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

own  back  was  religiously  turned.  So  for  that 
afternoon  demoiselles  and  squires  chose  King 
and  Queen  of  their  revels  from  among  their 
own  number,  and  perhaps  enjoyed  their  games 
the  better  for  that  fact. 

When  the  sun  was  leaning  far  toward  the 
broad  breast  of  the  sea,  all  the  Castle,  mindful 
of  their  souls,  repaired  to  the  chapel  for  ves 
pers,  a  service  held  only  when  the  Bishop 
was  at  Le  Crepuscule.  Gerault  and  Lenore 
were  the  last  to  appear,  and  while  the  Sei 
gneur's  expression  was  rather  thoughtful  than 
happy,  it  had  in  it,  nevertheless,  a  suggestion 
of  Lenore's  repressed  joy,  so  that  madame, 
seeing  him,  was  satisfied  for  the  first  time  since 
his  home-coming. 

But  alas  for  the  thoughts  and  hopes  that 
this  afternoon  had  raised  in  the  observing  ones 
of  Le  Crepuscule,  Lenore  and  her  husband 
were  not  seen  again  to  spend  a  single  hour 
alone  together.  Gerault  remained  for  the  most 
part  with  the  general  company  of  the  Castle, 
not  seeking  to  escape  to  solitude  with  Cour- 
toise,  but  holding  his  lady  from  him  at  arm's 
length.  His  attitude  toward  her  was  un 
easy.  He  did  not  avoid  her,  but,  were  they 
[186] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 


by  chance  left  alone  together  for  ten  min 
utes,  his  manner  changed  till  it  was  like  that 
of  a  man  guilty  of  some  dishonorable  thing. 
Oftentimes,  when  they  were  with  a  num 
ber  of  others,  Gerault  would  be  seen  to 
watch  Lenore  closely,  and  his  eyes  would  light 
with  momentary  pleasure  at  some  one  of 
her  unconscious  graces.  But  the  light  never 
stayed.  Quickly  his  black  brows  would 
darken,  the  shadows  re-cover  his  face,  and 
he  would  be  more  unapproachable  than 
before. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days,  Lenore  began 
to  grow  morbidly  sensitive  over  her  husband's 
attitude  ;  and,  out  of  sheer  misery,  she  began 
to  avoid  him  persistently.  This  brought  a 
still  more  bitter  blow  to  her,  for  she  discovered 
that  he  was  glad  to  be  avoided.  Lenore  was 
desperate  ;  but  still  she  was  brave,  still  she 
held  to  herself;  and  if  at  times  she  sought 
refuge  with  madame  and  Alixe,  those  two 
kindly  and  pitying  souls  met  her  with  out 
stretched  arms  of  silent  sympathy,  and  never 
betrayed  to  her  by  so  much  as  a  glance  how 
much  they  had  observed  of  Gerault's  incom 
prehensible  neglect. 

[187] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

The  holiday  week  passed,  and  with  its  end 
came  a  spirit  of  relief  that  it  was  over.  Next 
morning  the  usual  occupations  were  begun, 
and  Lenore  went  up  to  the  spinning-room  with 
the  rest  of  the  women.  This  work-room  was 
on  the  second  floor,  and  ran  almost  the  whole 
length  of  the  south  side  of  the  Castle :  a  long, 
narrow  room,  with  many  windows  looking  out 
upon  the  courtyard,  and  only  a  sideways  view 
of  the  hazy,  turquoise  sea.  Here  was  every 
known  mechanical  contrivance  for  the  making 
of  cloth  and  tapestry,  and  their  development 
out  of  the  raw  wool.  The  loom,  just  now 
half-filled  with  a  warp  of  pale  green,  stood  at 
the  east  end  of  the  room  ;  the  fixed  combs, 
the  half-dozen  spinning-wheels,  the  tambour- 
frames  for  embroidery,  and  the  great  tapestry- 
border  frame,  were  ranged  in  an  orderly  line 
down  the  remaining  length,  and  each  of  the 
maidens  had  her  particular  task  of  the  summer 
in  some  stage  of  completion.  Since  Lenore's 
arrival  a  spinning-wheel  had  been  set  up  here 
for  her,  and  she  sat  down  to  it  at  once,  while 
her  demoiselles  were  directed  by  madame  to 
begin  work  on  the  tapestry  border,  at  which 
four  could  apply  the  needle  at  the  same  time. 
[188] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

As  the  roomful  settled  quickly  to  work, 
under  the  general  guidance  of  madame,  Lenore 
began  to  tread  her  wheel  and  draw  out  thread 
with  a  hand  practised  enough  to  win  the  ap 
proval  even  of  Eleanore.  And  as  the  morning 
wore  along,  Lenore  found  herself  unaccount 
ably  soothed  and  comforted  by  her  task  and 
the  kindly  atmosphere  of  perseverance  and 
attention  to  duty  surrounding  her. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  a  comfortable  day 
for  such  work.  The  heat  was  intense.  Fin 
gers  grew  constantly  damp  with  sweat.  Thread 
knotted  and  broke,  silk  drew,  and  little  ex 
clamations  of  anger  and  disgust  were  fre 
quently  to  be  heard.  However,  the  labor  was 
continued  as  usual  for  three  hours,  till  eleven 
o'clock,  the  dinner-hour,  came,  and  the  little 
company  willingly  left  the  spinning-room  to 
another  afternoon  of  silence,  and  went  down 
stairs  to  meat.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  stood 
Gerault,  waiting  for  Lenore ;  and  when  she 
reached  him  he  kissed  her  upon  the  brow 
before  leading  her  to  table.  In  that  moment 
the  girl's  heart  sang,  and  she  felt  that  her 
day  had  been  fittingly  crowned. 

In  the  early  afternoon  Lenore  found  that 
[189] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

there  were  new  occupations  for  all  the  Castle. 
The  demoiselles  were  despatched  to  the  long 
room  on  the  first  floor,  which,  though  not 
dignified  by  the  name  of  library,  yet  took 
that  place,  for  instruction  in  certain  things, 
mental  and  moral,  by  the  friar-steward,  Father 
Anselm.  The  young  men  were  at  sword 
practice  in  the  keep.  And  Lenore,  who  could 
write  her  name  and  read  a  little  from  parch 
ment  manuscripts  in  both  Latin  and  French, 
and  whose  education  was  therefore  finished, 
was  summoned  by  madame  and  taken  over 
the  whole  Castle,  receiving,  at  various  stages, 
instruction  in  domestic  duties  and  the  manage 
ment  of  the  great  building.  She  saw  every 
thing,  from  the  linen-presses  upstairs  to  the 
wine-cellars  underground  ;  and  everywhere  the 
hand  of  madame  was  visible  in  the  scrupulous 
exactness  and  neatness  with  which  the  Castle 
was  kept.  Then  in  her  heart  Lenore  deter 
mined  that  in  time  she  would  learn  madame's 
habits,  and,  if  it  could  be  done  in  no  other 
way,  win  Gerault's  respect  by  her  abilities  as  a 
housekeeper. 

The  hours  of  late  afternoon  and  early  even 
ing  were  devoted  to  recreation,  which  was  en- 
[190] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 


tered  into  with  new  zest  by  every  one.  To  be 
sure,  Gerault  sat  all  evening  with  his  mother, 
playing  draughts.  But  his  eyes  occasionally 
strayed  to  the  figure  of  his  wife  ;  and  later, 
when  the  Castle  was  still,  and  Lenore,  in  the 
great  curtained  bed,  was  wandering  on  the 
borderland  of  sleep,  she  felt  that  this  day  was 
the  happiest  she  had  yet  spent  in  Le  Crepus- 
cule ;  and  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  work  and 
work  only  could  now  bring  her  peace.  And 
thereafter,  poor  little  dreamer,  a  smile  hovered 
upon  her  face  as  she  slept ! 

On  the  tenth  day  of  the  new  regime  in  Le 
Crepuscule,  squire  Courtoise  sat  in  the  armory, 
polishing  the  design  engraved  on  his  lord's 
breastplate.  Courtoise  was  moody.  Ordina 
rily  his  cheerfulness  in  the  face  of  insuperable 
dulness  was  something  to  be  proud  of.  But 
latterly  his  faith,  the  one  great  faith  in  his 
heart,  —  not  religion,  but  utter  devotion  to 
his  lord  —  had  been  receiving  a  series  of 
shocks  that  had  shaken  it  to  its  foundation. 
Courtoise  was  by  nature  as  gentle,  genial,  and 
kindly  a  fellow  as  ever  held  a  lance ;  and  in 
his  heart  he  had  for  years  blindly  worshipped 
Gerault.  His  creed  of  devotion,  indeed,  had 
[191] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

embraced  the  whole  family  of  Le  Crepuscule, 
because  Gerault  was  its  head.  Till  the  time 
of  their  last  going  to  Rennes,  there  had  been 
for  him  no  woman  like  madame,  no  such  maid 
as  Laure,  and  no  man  anywhere  comparable 
to  his  master.  Poor  Laure  had  dealt  him  a 
grievous  blow  when  she  followed  Flammecoeur 
from  the  priory.  But  from  the  day  of  Ge- 
rault's  betrothal  to  little  Lenore,  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  Iron  Chateau  had  held  his  heart  in 
her  hand,  and  might  have  done  with  it  as  she 
would.  Loving  the  two  of  them  as  he  did, 
and  seeing  each  day  fresh  proof  of  Lenore's 
affection  for  her  lord  and  his,  Courtoise  natu 
rally  looked  for  a  fitting  return  of  this  from  the 
Seigneur.  And  here,  all  in  a  night,  Courtoise's 
first  great  doubt  had  entered  in.  They  had 
been  married  three  days,  they  were  barely  at  Le 
Crepuscule,  before  Courtoise  saw  what  made 
him  sick  with  uneasiness.  If  the  Seigneur  had 
wedded  this  exquisite  maiden  with  the  sunlit 
hair,  must  he  not  love  her?  And  yet  —  and 
yet  —  and  yet — Courtoise  sat  in  the  armory 
and  polished  freely  at  the  steel,  and  swore  to 
himself  under  his  breath,  recklessly  incurring 
whatever  penance  Anselm  should  see  fit  to 
[192] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

give.  For  here  it  was  mid-afternoon,  and  his 
little  lady  just  freed  from  her  hours  of  toil ; 
and  there  was  Gerault  gone  off  by  himself, 
without  even  his  squire,  forsooth,  to  hawk  with 
the  Iron-Beak  over  the  moor  ! 

Courtoise  had  been  indulging  himself  in  ire 
for  some  time,  when  a  shadow  stole  past  the 
doorway  of  the  armory.  He  looked  up.  The 
shadow  had  gone ;  but  presently  it  returned 
and  halted  :  "  Courtoise  !  " 

The  young  fellow  leaped  to  his  feet,  and 
the  breastplate  clattered  to  the  floor.  Lenore, 
looking  very  transparently  pale,  very  humbly 
wistful,  and  having  just  a  suspicion  of  red 
around  her  eyes,  was  regarding  him  tentatively 
from  the  doorway. 

"  Ma  dame,  what  service  dost  thou  ask  ?  " 

"  None,  Courtoise,"  the  voice  sounded  rather 
faint  and  tired.  "  None,  save  to  tell  me  if 
thou  hast  lately  seen  my  lord." 

The  expression  on  her  face  was  so  pathetic 
that  Courtoise  was  suddenly  struck  to  the 
heart,  and  he  bit  his  tongue  before  he  could 
reply  quietly  enough :  "  Ma  Dame  Lenore, 
Seigneur  Gerault  rode  out  long  time  since 
a-hawking ;  and  methinks  he  will  shortly  now 
[  13  ]  [  193  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

return.  The  hour  for  evening  meat  ap 
proaches.  I  —  I  —  "  he  broke  off,  stammer 
ing;  and  Lenore  without  speaking  bowed  her 
head,  and  patiently  turned  away. 

Courtoise  sat  down  again  when  she  left 
him,  and  remained  motionless,  the  steel  on 
his  knees,  his  hands  idle,  staring  into  space. 
Suddenly  he  leaped  to  his  feet  and  hurled  the 
breastplate  to  the  floor  with  a  smothered  oath. 
"  Gray  of  St.  Gray  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  devil 
hath  seized  the  man  I  loved?  Gerault,  my 
lord,  rides  out  and  leaves  this  angel  to  weep 
after  him  !  Gray  of  St.  Gray  !  what  desires 
he  more  fair  than  this  his  Lenore?  What  — 
what  —  what  —  "  the  muttered  words  died  into 
thoughts  as  Courtoise  clapped  a  cap  on  his 
head  and  strode  away  from  the  armory  and 
out  of  the  Castle. 

In  the  courtyard  the  first  object  that  met  his 
eyes  was  Gerault's  horse,  standing  in  front  of 
the  keep,  with  a  stable-boy  holding  him  by  the 
bridle.  Gerault  himself  was  in  the  doorway  of 
the  empty  falcon-house,  holding  a  hagard  on 
his  wrist,  while  two  dead  pigeons  swung  from 
his  girdle. 

"  Courtoise  !  Behold  our  spoils  !  Hath  not 
[194] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

Talon-Fer  done  Alixe's  training  honor  ?  "  cried 
Gerault,  the  note  of  pleasure  keener  than  usual 
in  his  voice. 

Courtoise,  flushed  with  rising  anger,  went 
over  to  him.  "My  lord,  the  Lady  Lenore 
asks  for  thee  ! "  he  said  a  little  hoarsely,  pay 
ing  no  attention  to  the  dead  pigeons  or  the 
young  falcon. 

Gerault  very  slightly  raised  his  brows,  more 
at  Courtoise's  tone,  perhaps,  than  at  the  words 
he  spoke.  "  The  Lady  Lenore,"  he  said. 

"  Even  so  —  the  Lady  Lenore  —  thy  wife  !  " 

"  I  understand  thee,  good  Courtoise." 

The  veins  in  the  younger  man's  neck  and 
temples  stood  out  under  the  strain  of  repres 
sion.  "  Comes  my  lord  ?  "  he  asked  slowly. 

"In  good  time,  Courtoise.  The  hagard 
must  be  fed."  Gerault  would  have  turned 
away,  but  Courtoise,  with  a  burst  of  irritation, 
exclaimed,  — 

"  I  will  feed  the  creature  !  " 

Now  Gerault  turned  to  him  again :  "  Hast 
thou  some  strange  malady  or  frenzy,  that 
thou  shouldst  use  such  tones  to  me,  boy?" 

"  Tones  —  tones,  and  yet  again  tones  !  Ge 
rault —  thou  churl !  Ay,  I  that  have  been  faith- 
[195] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

ful  squire  to  thee  these  many  years,  I  say  it. 
Thou  churl  and  worse,  to  have  wedded  with 
the  sweetest  lady  ever  sun  shone  upon,  to  bring 
her,  a  stranger,  home  to  thy  Castle,  and  then 
leave  her  there,  day  following  day,  while  thou 
ridest  over  the  moors  to  dally  with  some  bird  ! 
All  the  Castle  stares  at  the  cruelty  of  thy  ne 
glect.  Daily  the  demoiselles  whisper  together, 
wondering  what  distemper  thy  lady  hath  that 
thou  seest  her  not  by  day  — " 

"Hush,  boy — hush !  Thou 'rt  surely  mad ! " 
cried  out  Gerault,  with  a  note  in  his  voice  that 
gave  Courtoise  pause. 

Then  there  fell  between  them  a  silence, 
heavy,  and  so  binding  that  Courtoise  could 
not  move.  He  stood  staring  into  his  master's 
face,  watching  the  color  grow  from  white  to 
red  and  back  again,  and  the  expression  change 
from  angry  amazement  to  something  softer, 
something  strange,  something  that  Courtoise 
did  not  know  in  his  lord's  face.  And  Gerault 
gnawed  his  lip,  and  bent  low  his  head,  and 
presently  spoke,  in  a  voice  that  was  not  his 
own,  but  was  rather  curiously  muffled  and 
unnatural. 

"  Thou  sayest  well,  Courtoise.  'T  is  true  I 
[196] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

H3S^JESES=S3S=E=£=SSS=SiS5SSeS5SS= 

have  neglected  her,  poor,  frail,  pretty  child ! 
Ah  !  I  had  never  thought  how  I  have  neglected 
her "  ;  and  Gerault  sat  suddenly  down  upon 
the  step  of  the  falcon-house  and  laid  his  head 
in  his  hands,  in  an  attitude  of  such  dejection 
that  Courtoise  experienced  a  swift  rush  of 
repentance. 

For  some  time  there  was  again  silence  be 
tween  them.  Courtoise,  thoroughly  mystified 
by  the  whole  situation,  had  nothing  whatever 
to  say.  Finally  the  Seigneur  stood  up,  this 
time  with  his  head  high,  and  his  self-control 
returned.  He  put  the  falcon,  screaming,  into 
his  squire's  hands,  and  took  the  bodies  of  the 
pigeons  from  his  belt. 

"  So,  Courtoise,  I  leave  them  all  with  you. 
Where  is  the  Lady  Lenore  ?  " 

"  Sooth,  I  know  not ;  yet  methinks  when 
she  left  the  armory  where  she  had  spoken  to 
me,  she  passed  into  the  chapel." 

"  I  go  to  her.    And  I  thank  thee,  Courtoise, 

D  *  * 

for  thy  rebuke." 

"My  lord,  my  lord,  forgive  me  !  "  Courtoise 

choked  with  a  sudden   new  rush  of  devotion 

for  his  master.     He  would  have  fallen  on  his 

knees  there  on  the  courtyard  stones,  but  that 

[  197  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

the  Seigneur,  with  a  faint  smile  at  him,  was 
gone,  carrying  alone  the  burden  of  his  inex 
plicable  sorrow. 

The  Lady  Lenore  was  in  the  chapel,  half 
kneeling,  half  lying  upon  the  altar-step.  In 
the  dim  light  of  the  shadowy  place  her  golden 
hair  and  amber-colored  garments  glimmered 
faintly.  She  was  not  praying,  yet  neither  was 
she  weeping,  now.  The  long,  hot  loneliness 
of  the  afternoon  had  thrown  her  into  a  state  of 
apathy,  in  which  she  wished  for  nothing,  and 
in  which  she  refused  to  think.  She  had  no 
desire  for  company ;  but  had  any  one  come  — 
David,  or  Alixe,  or  Madame  —  she  should  not 
have  cared.  It  was  only  Gerault  that  she 
would  not  have  see  her  in  this  place  and  atti 
tude.  The  thought  of  Gerault  was  continually 
with  her,  as  something  omnipresent ;  but  at 
this  especial  hour  she  felt  no  wish  to  see  the 
man  himself.  Yet  now  he  came.  She  heard  a 
tread  on  the  stones  that  sent  a  tremor  through 
her  whole  body.  Then  some  one  was  kneel 
ing  beside  her,  and  a  quiet  voice  said  gently  in 
her  ear,  — 

"  Lenore  !  —  My  child  !  —  Why  art  thou 
lying  here  ?  " 

[198] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

Lenore  tried  hard  to  speak ;  but  her  throat 
contracted  convulsively,  and  she  made  no 
answer. 

"  Child,  art  thou  sick  for  thy  home  ?  Thou 
hast  found  sorrow  here,  and  loneliness,  in  this 
new  abode.  Perhaps  thou  wouldst  have  had 
me  oftener  at  thy  side.  Is  it  so,  Lenore  ?  " 

The  girl's  golden  head  burrowed  down  into 
her  arms,  and  she  seemed  to  shake  it,  but  she 
did  not  speak. 

Gerault  looked  about  him  a  little  helplessly. 
Then,  taking  new  resolution,  he  put  one  arm 
about  her,  and,  drawing  her  slight  form  close 
to  him,  he  said  in  a  halting  and  broken  way  : 
"  Come,  my  wife  —  come  with  me  for  a  little 
time.  Let  us  walk  out  together  to  the  cliff 
by  the  sea.  The  sun  draws  near  the  water  — 
the  afternoon  grows  rich  with  gold.  —  And 
thou  and  I  will  talk  together.  —  Lenore,  much 
might  I  tell  thee  of  myself,  whereby  thou  couldst 
understand  many  things  that  trouble  thee  now. 
Knowing  them,  and  with  them,  me,  thou  shalt 
more  justly  judge  me.  Come,  little  one, — 
rise  up  !  "  He  drew  her  to  her  feet  beside 
him,  and  then,  with  his  arms  still  around  her, 
he  stood  and  put  his  lips  to  her  half-averted 
[199] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

cheek.  Under  that  kiss  she  grew  cold  and 
tremulous,  but  still  preserved  her  silence. 
Then  the  two  moved,  side  by  side,  out  of  the 
Castle,  through  the  courtyard,  and  on  to  the 
outer  terrace  that  ran  along  the  very  edge  of 
the  precipitous  cliff  against  which,  far  below, 
the  summer  sea  gently  broke  and  plashed. 

Here,  hand  in  hand,  the  Seigneur  and  his 
lady  walked,  looking  off  together  at  the  glory 
of  the  mighty  waters.  The  crimson  sky  was 
veiled  in  light  clouds  that  caught  a  more 
and  more  splendid  reflection  of  the  fiery  ball 
behind  them  ;  while  the  moving  waves  below 
were  stained  with  pink  and  mellow  gold. 
Lenore  kept  her  eyes  fixed  fast  upon  this 
sight,  while  she  listened  to  what  Gerault  was 
saying  to  her.  He  talked,  in  a  fitful,  chaotic 
way,  of  many  things :  of  his  boyhood  here,  of 
Laure  his  sister,  and  Alixe,  and  of  "  one  other 
that  was  not  as  any  of  us,  —  our  cousin,  a 
daughter  of  Laval,  whose  dead  mother  had 
put  her  in  the  keeping  of  mine." 

So  much  mention  of  this  girl  Gerault  made, 

and    then  went  on  to  other  things,  jumbling 

together   many    incidents    and    scenes    of    his 

boyhood  and  his   youth,  never  guessing    that 

[200] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

Lenore,  who  continued  so  quietly  to  look  off 
upon  the  sea,  had  seized  upon  this  one  little 
thing  that  he  had  said,  and  realized,  with 
a  woman's  intuition,  that  the  story  of  his 
heart  lay  here.  As  Gerault  rambled  on,  he 
came  gradually  to  feel  that  he  had  lost  her 
attention,  and  so,  little  by  little,  as  the  sunset 
light  died  away,  he  ceased  to  speak,  and  there 
crept  in  upon  them,  over  them,  through  them, 
that  terrible  silence  that  both  of  them  knew : 
the  all-pervading,  ghostly  silence  that  haunted 
this  spot ;  the  silence  that  had  brought  the 
name  upon  the  Castle,  —  the  Chateau  du 
Crepuscule.  Lenore  grew  slowly  cold  with 
miserable  foreboding,  while  Gerault,  rebelling 
against  himself,  was  struggling  to  break  the 
bonds  of  his  own  nature. 

"  Well  named  is  this  home  of  ours,  Lenore," 
he  said  sadly. 

"  Yea,  it  is  well  named,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Wilt  thou  —  be  —  lonely  forever  here  ? 
Art  thou  lonely  now?  Hast  thou  a  sickness 
for  thy  home  and  for  thy  people?  " 

For  an  instant  Lenore  hesitated.  At  Ge- 
rault's  words  her  heart  had  leaped  up  with 
a  great  cry  of  "  Yes  " ;  and  yet  now  there 
[201  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

was  something  in  her  that  withheld  her  from 
saying  it.  When  at  last  she  answered  him, 
her  words  were  unaccountable  to  herself,  yet 
she  spoke  them  feelingly:  "  Nay,  Gerault. 
Thou  hast  taken  me  to  be  one  with  thee. 
Thou  hast  brought  me  here  to  thy  home, 
and  it  is  also  mine." 

A  light  of  pleasure  came  into  Gerault's  face, 
and  he  took  her  into  his  arms  with  a  freer 
and  more  open  warmth  than  he  had  ever 
shown  her  before.  "  Indeed,  thou  art  my 
wife  —  one  with  me  —  my  sweet  one — my 
sweet  child  Lenore !  And  this  my  home  is 
also  thine,  —  Chateau  du  Crepuscule  !" 

Suddenly  Lenore  shivered  in  his  clasp. 
That  word  "  Crepuscule "  sounded  like  a 
knell  in  her  ears,  and  as  she  looked  upon 
the  gray  walls  looming  out  of  the  twilight 
mists,  the  very  blood  in  her  veins  stood  still. 
Whether  Gerault  felt  her  dread  she  did  not 
know,  but  he  did  not  loose  his  hold  upon 
her  for  a  long  time.  They  stood,  close- 
clasped,  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  looking 
off  upon  the  darkening  sea,  till,  over  the 
eastern  horizon  line,  the  great  pink  moon 
slipped  up,  giving  promise  of  glory  to  the 
[202] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 


night.  The  cool  evening  breeze  came  off 
the  waters.  They  heard  the  creaking  and 
grating  of  the  drawbridge,  as  it  was  raised. 
Then  a  flock  of  sea  gulls  floated  up  from 
the  water  below,  and  veered  southward,  along 
the  shore,  toward  their  home.  Finally,  in  the 
deepening  west,  the  evening  star  came  out, 
hanging  there  like  a  diamond  on  an  invisible 
thread.  Then  Gerault  whispered  in  the  ear 
of  Lenore,  — 

"  Sweet  child,  it  is  late.  The  hour  of  even 
ing  meat  is  now  long  past.  Let  us  go  into 
the  Castle." 

Lenore  yielded  at  once  to  the  pressure  of 
Gerault's  arm,  and  let  herself  be  drawn  away. 
But  she  carried  forever  after  the  memory  of 
that  quiet  half-hour,  in  which  the  mighty 
hand  of  nature  had  been  lifted  over  her  to 
give  her  blessing. 

Courtoise  the  faithful  had  kept  the  two  from 
a  summons  at  the  hour  of  supper ;  and  on 
their  return  they  found  food  left  upon  the 
table  for  them  ;  but,  what  was  unusual  at  this 
time,  the  great  room  was  empty.  Only  Cour 
toise,  who  was  again  at  work  in  the  armory, 
knew  how  long  they  sat  and  ate  and  talked 
[203] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

together,  and  only  he  saw  them  when  they 
rose  from  table,  passed  immediately  to  the 
stairs,  and  ascended,  side  by  side.  Then  the 
young  squire  knew  that  they  would  come 
down  no  more  that  night ;  and  he  guessed 
what  was  really  true :  that  on  that  evening 
Lenore's  cup  of  happiness  seemed  full ;  for, 
as  never  before,  Gerault  claimed  and  took  to 
himself  the  unselfish  devotion  that  she  was 
so  ready  to  give.  When  she  slept,  a  smile 
yet  lingered  round  her  lips ;  nor,  in  that 
sleep,  did  she  feel  the  change  that  came  upon 
her  lord. 

Not  many  hours  after  she  had  sunk  to  rest, 
Lenore  woke  slowly,  to  find  herself  alone  in 
the  canopied  bed.  Gerault  was  not  there. 
She  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  found  his 
place  empty.  Opening  her  eyes  with  a  little 
effort,  she  pushed  the  curtains  back  from  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  and  looked  about  her.  It 
could  not  be  more  than  twelve  o'clock.  The 
room  was  flooded  with  moonlight,  till  it  looked 
like  a  fairy  place.  The  three  windows  were 
wide  open  to  the  breath  of  the  sea ;  and  beside 
one  of  them  knelt  Gerault.  He  was  wrapped 
in  a  full  mantle  that  hid  the  lines  of  his  figure  ; 
[204] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 


and  Lenore  could  see  only  that  his  brow  rested 
on  the  window-sill,  that  his  shoulders  were 
bent,  and  his  hands  clasped  tight  on  the  ledge 
beyond  his  head.  Unutterable  pain  was  ex 
pressed  in  the  attitude. 

What  was  he  doing  there  ?  Of  what  were 
his  thoughts  ?  Why  had  he  left  her  side  ? 
Above  all,  what  was  his  secret  trouble?  These 
questions  passed  quickly  through  Lenore's 
brain,  and  her  first  impulse  was  to  rise  and  go 
to  him.  Had  she  not  the  right  to  know  his 
heart?  Had  he  not  given  it  to  her  this  very 
night  ?  She  looked  at  him  again,  asking  her 
self  if  he  were  really  in  pain  ;  if  he  were  not 
rather  simply  looking  out  upon  the  moonlit 
sea,  and  was  now,  perhaps,  engaged  in  prayer, 
to  which  the  beauty  of  the  scene  had  lifted  him. 
She  would  go  to  him  and  learn. 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  pushed  her  golden  hair 
out  of  her  neck  and  back  from  her  face.  Then 
she  drew  the  curtains  still  farther  aside,  pre 
paratory  to  stepping  out,  when  suddenly  she 
saw  Gerault  lift  his  head  as  if  he  listened  for 
something  far  away  ;  and  then  she  caught  the 
whispered  word,  "  Lenore  !  " 

For  some  reason,  she  could  not  have  told 
[205] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

why,  Lenore  did  not  move,  but  sat  quite  still, 
staring  at  him.  She  heard  him  say  again,  more 
loudly,  "  Lenore  !"  but  he  did  not  turn  toward 
her  bed.  Rather,  he  was  looking  out,  out  of 
the  window,  and  down  the  line  of  rocky  shore 
that  stretched  away  to  the  north. 

"  Lenore !  I  hear  thee !  I  hear  thy 
voice  !  "  he  whispered,  to  himself,  fearfully.  "  I 
hear  thee  speaking  to  me.  —  Oh,  my  God ! 
My  God  !  When  wilt  Thou  remove  this  tor 
ture  from  my  brain  ?  "  He  rose  to  his  feet 
and  lifted  his  arms  as  if  in  supplication.  "  It 
is  a  curse  upon  me  !  It  is  a  madness,  that  I 
cannot  love  this  other  maiden.  Thou  spirit 
of  my  lost  Lenore  !  —  Lenore !  —  Lenore  !  — 
Thou  callest  to  me  from  the  sea  by  day 
and  night !  —  Only  and  forever  beloved,  come 
thou  back  to  me,  out  of  the  sea !  —  Come 
back  to  me  !  —  Come  back !  "  His  hands  were 
clenched  under  such  a  stress  of  emotion  as  his 
girl-wife  had  never  dreamed  him  capable  of. 
Now  he  stood  there  without  speaking,  his 
breath  coming  in  sobbing  gasps  that  shook  his 
whole  frame.  The  beating  of  his  heart  seemed 
as  if  it  would  suffocate  him,  and  his  body 
swayed  back  and  forward,  under  the  force  of 
[206] 


THE    LOST    LENORE 

^:^^g<^^~^^?^^~g^^rag^«>g^^^<^yg^gT;^^^^gr^< 

his  mental  anguish.  For  the  first  time  in  all 
his  years  of  silent  grief,  he  gave  way  unreserv 
edly  to  himself;  let  all  the  pent-up  agony 
come  forth  as  it  would  from  him,  as  he  stood 
there,  looking  off  upon  that  wonderful,  inscru 
table,  shimmering  ocean,  that  had  played  such 
havoc  with  his  changeless  heart. 

From  the  bed  where  she  sat,  Lenore  watched 
him,  silent,  motionless,  afraid  almost  to  breathe 
lest  he  should  discover  that  she  was  awake. 
But  Gerault  wist  nothing  of  her  presence. 
He  had  known  no  joy  in  her,  in  the  hallowed 
hours  of  the  early  night ;  else  he  could  not 
now  stand  there  at  the  window,  calling,  in 
tones  of  unutterable  agony  and  tenderness, 
upon  his  dead, — 

"  Lenore  !  Lenore  !  Come  back  !  —  O  sea 
—  thou  mighty,  cruel  sea,  deliver  her  up  for 
one  moment  to  my  arms  !  Let  me  have  but 
one  look,  a  touch,  a  kiss.  —  Oh,  my  God  !  — 
Come  back  to  me  at  last,  or  else  I  die  !  " 

He  fell  to  his  knees  again,  faint  with  the 
power  of  his  emotion ;  and  Lenore,  the  other, 
the  unloved  Lenore,  sat  behind  him,  in  the 
great  bed,  watching. 

The  moonlight  crept  slowly  from  that  room, 
[207] 


CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


and  passed,  like  a  wraith,  off  the  sea,  and  be 
yond,  into  the  east.  The  stars  shone  brighter 
for  the  passing  of  the  moon.  There  was  no 
sound  in  the  great  stillness,  save  the  rustling 
murmur  of  the  outflowing  tide.  In  the  chilly 
darkness  before  the  break  of  dawn,  Gerault  of 
the  Twilight  Castle  crept  back  to  the  bed  he 
had  left,  looking  fixedly,  through  the  gloom, 
at  the  white,  passive  face  of  his  wife,  who  lay 
back,  with  closed  eyes,  on  her  pillow.  And 
when  at  last  he  slept  again,  she  did  not  move  ; 
yet  she  was  not  asleep.  In  that  hour  her 
youth  was  passing  from  her,  and  she,  a  woman 
at  last,  entered  alone  into  that  dim  and  quiet 
vale  where  those  that  lived  about  her  had  wan 
dered  so  long,  so  patiently,  and,  at  last,  so 
wearily,  alone. 


[208] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

TO   A   TRUMPET-CALL 


FTER  the  night  of  Gerault's 
passion,  twelve  days  ebbed 
and  flowed  away  without  any 
incident  of  moment  in  the 
Castle.  How  much  bitter 
heart-life  was  enacted  in  that 
time,  it  had  indeed  been  difficult  to  tell. 
Lenore  wondered,  constantly,  as  she  looked 
into  the  faces  about  her  and  questioned  them 
as  she  refused  to  question  her  own  heart.  If, 
beneath  that  cloak  of  lordly  courtesy  and  calm 
ness,  Gerault  could  hide  such  a  grief  as  she 
knew  was  buried  in  his  soul ;  if  she  herself 
found  it  so  easy  to  conceal  her  own  knowledge 
of  that  bitterest  of  all  facts,  that  she  was  a  wife 
unloved,  —  what  stories  of  mental  anguish,  of 
long-hidden  torture,  might  not  lie  behind  the 
impassive  masks  around  her.  There  was 
[1*1  [209] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Madame  Eleanore,  madame  of  the  command 
ing  presence  and  infinitely  gentle  manners. 
What  was  it  that  had  generated  the  expression 
of  her  eyes  ?  Lenore  had  scarcely  heard  the 
name  of  Laure,  thought  only  that  there  had 
been  a  daughter  in  Crepuscule  who  had  died 
long  since  ;  and  so  she  wove  a  little  history 
of  her  own  to  account  for  that  haunted  look 
so  often  to  be  found  in  madame's  dark  orbs. 
Gerault  she  knew.  Alixe  puzzled  her,  but 
there  also  she  found  food  for  her  morbidness. 
Courtoise  and  the  demoiselles  she  did  not  con 
sider  ;  but  David  the  dwarf  held  possibilities. 
The  young  woman's  new-sharpened  glance 
quickly  discovered  that  the  jester  suffered 
also  from  the  devouring  malady,  and  she 
wondered  over  and  pitied  him  also. 

Indeed,  at  this  time,  Lenore  was  in  an  ab 
normal  and  unhealthy  frame  of  mind.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  all  the  world  lived  only  to 
hide  its  sorrows.  But  her  melancholy  specu 
lations  concerning  the  nature  of  the  griefs  of 
others  saved  her  from  the  disastrous  effects  of 
too  much  self-analysis.  Her  love  for  Gerault, 
to  which  she  always  clung,  led  her  to  pity  him 
as  he  would  not  have  believed  she  could  have 
[210] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

iss2Ssss^sasa52S2sas=sgsa5=sg=ca==s^=^^ 

pitied  any  one  ;  and,  unnatural  as  it  seemed,  she 
brooded  as  much  over  his  sorrow  as  over  her 
own.  Melancholy  she  was,  indeed,  and  older 
by  many  years  than  when  she  had  first  come 
to  Le  Crepuscule.  Sometimes  the  fact  that 
Gerault  did  not  know  how  much  she  knew 
brought  her  a  measure  of  comfort,  but  it  made 
her  uneasy,  also,  for  she  was  not  sure  that  she 
was  not  wrongfully  deceiving  him.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  confess  to  Father  Anselm 
what  she  felt  no  one  should  know ;  and  neither 
did  she  find  it  in  her  heart  to  tell  Gerault  him 
self  of  her  inadvertent  discovery,  though  had 
she  but  done  this  last,  all  might  have  come 
right  in  the  end.  But  from  day  to  day  she 
put  away  from  her  the  thought  of  speaking, 
and  from  day  to  day  she  drew  closer  into  her 
self,  till  she  was  shut  to  all  thought  of  con 
fiding  in  him  who  had  the  right  to  know  the 
reason  of  her  unhappiness. 

Gerault,  however,  was  not  unobserving,  and 
he  noticed  the  change  in  her  very  early  in  its 
existence.  It  was  an  intangible  thing,  elusive, 
changeable,  varying  in  degree.  All  this  he 
realized ;  but,  man-like,  never  guessed  the 
reason  for  it,  never  knew  that  Lenore  herself 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

was  unconscious  of  it.  Did  she  desire  to  co 
quet  with  him,  render  him  uneasily  jealous 
of  every  one  on  whom  she  turned  her  eyes  ? 
If  so,  it  was  useless,  for  the  knight  believed 
himself  incapable  of  jealousy  in  regard  to  her. 
He  had  married  her  for  the  sake  of  his  mother, 
and  for  Le  Crepuscule,  —  much  as  the  fact  did 
him  dishonor.  In  the  very  hour  of  their  high 
est  love,  his  thoughts  had  been  all  for  another ; 
and  when  she  slept  he  had  left  her  side  to  cry 
into  the  night  and  the  silence,  unto  that  other, 
of  whom  this  young  Lenore  had  never  heard. 
Despite  these  confessed  things,  the  Seigneur 
Gerault  felt  in  some  way  hurt  when  the  timid 
shadow  of  his  wife  no  longer  haunted  him  by 
day,  nor  stretched  to  his  protecting  arm  by 
night.  She  had  withdrawn  from  him  into  her 
self,  and  even  his  occasional  half-hours  of  devo 
tion  failed  to  bring  any  light  into  her  eyes, 
though  she  treated  him  always  with  half-tender 
courtesy.  Her  lord  was  not  a  little  puzzled 
by  her  new  manner,  but  he  took  it  in  his 
own  way ;  and  there  was  presently  a  stiffness 
of  demeanor  between  the  two  that  would  have 
been  almost  laughable  had  it  not  been  so 
pathetically  cruel  to  Lenore. 
[212] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

g^^s^^^g??re<^^>^<r^^s-^«^g-<^<T^^^ 

The  month  of  July  passed  away,  and  August 
came  into  the  land.  Brittany,  long  blazing  with 
sunlight,  lay  parching  for  want  of  rain.  The 
moors  grew  brown  and  dusty,  and  the  meadow 
flowers  bloomed  no  more.  But  the  blue  sea 
shimmered  radiantly  day  by  day,  and  the 
sunsets  were  ever  more  glorious  and  more  red. 

On  a  day  in  the  first  week  of  the  last  sum 
mer  month,  when  Anselm  had  found  the  tem 
perature  too  great  for  the  casting  of  choice 
paragraphs  of  Cicero  before  the  unheeding 
demoiselles,  when  the  Castle  reeked  with  the 
smell  of  cooking,  and  the  air  outside  was 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  hard-baked  earth, 
Gerault  sat  in  the  long  room  alone,  reading 
Seneca  from  an  illuminated  text.  A  heretical 
document  this,  and  not  to  be  found  in  a  mon 
astery  or  holy  place ;  yet  there  were  in  it  such 
scraps  of  homely  wisdom  and  comfort  as  the 
Seigneur  —  something  of  a  scholar  in  his  idle 
hours  —  had  failed  to  find  in  Holy  Scripture. 

In  its  dimly  lighted  silence  the  long  room 
was,  at  this  hour,  a  soothing  place.  The  row 
of  small  casement  windows  were  open  to  the 
sea,  and  two  or  three  swallows,  coming  up  from 
the  water  below,  flitted  through  the  room,  and 
[213] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

once  even  a  sleek  and  well-fed  gull  came  to  sit 
upon  a  sill  and  flap  his  wings  over  the  flavor 
of  his  last  fish. 

Gerault's  back  was  turned  to  the  light ;  yet 
he  knew  these  little  incidents  of  the  birds,  and 
took  pleasure  in  them.  A  portion  of  his  mind 
rejoiced  lazily  in  the  quiet  and  solitude ;  the  rest 
was  fixed  upon  the  Latin  words  that  he  trans 
lated  still  with  some  lordly  difficulty.  He  found 
himself  in  the  mood  to  consider  the  thoughts 
of  men  long  dead,  and  was  indulging  in  the  un 
surpassed  delight  of  the  philosopher  when,  to 
his  vast  annoyance,  Courtoise  pushed  aside  the 
curtains  of  the  door,  and  came  into  the  room 
followed  by  another  man.  Gerault  looked  up 
testily ;  but  as  he  uttered  his  first  word  of  re 
proach,  his  eye  caught  the  dress  of  his  squire's 
companion,  and  he  broke  off  with  an  exclama 
tion  :  "  Dame  !  Thou,  Favriole  ?  " 

"  May  it  please  thee,  Seigneur  du  Crepus- 
cule,"  was  the  reply,  as  the  new-comer  ad 
vanced,  bowing.  He  was  elaborately  and 
significantly  dressed  in  a  parti-colored  surcoat 
of  blue  and  white  silk,  emblazoned  behind 
and  before  with  the  coronet  and  arms  of 
Duke  Jean  of  Brittany.  His  hosen  were 
[214] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

also  parti-colored,  yellow  and  blue,  and  the 
round  cap  that  he  held  in  his  hand  was  of 
blue  felt  with  a  white  feather.  At  his  side 
hung  the  instrument  of  his  calling,  a  silver 
trumpet  on  a  tasselled  cord ;  for  he  was  a 
ducal  herald,  and,  before  he  spoke,  Gerault 
knew  his  errand. 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  Favriole  ! "  he  said 
kindly.  "What  is  thy  message  now?  Surely 
not  war  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Seigneur  Gerault !  A  merrier  mes 
sage  than  that !  "  Lifting  his  trumpet  to  his 
lips,  he  blew  upon  it  a  clear,  silvery  blast, 
and,  after  the  rather  absurd  formality,  began : 
"  Oyez  !  Oyez  !  Oyez  !  Be  it  known  to  all 
princes,  barons,  knights,  and  gentlemen  of  the 
Duchy  of  Brittany  and  the  dependency  of 
Normandy,  and  to  the  knights  of  Christian 
countries,  if  they  be  not  enemies  to  the  Duke 
our  Sire,  —  to  whom  God  give  long  life,  — 
that  in  the  ducal  lists  of  Rennes  in  Brittany, 
upon  the  fifteenth  day  of  this  month  of 
August  in  this  year  of  grace  1381,  and  there 
after  till  the  twentieth  day  of  that  month, 
there  will  be  a  great  pardon  of  arms  and  very 
noble  tourney  fought  after  the  ancient  customs, 
[215] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

at  which  tourney  the  chiefs  will  be  the  most 
illustrious  Duke  of  Brittany,  appellant,  and  the 
very  valiant  Hugo  de  Laci,  Lord  in  vassalage 
to  his  Grace  of  England,  of  the  Castle  An- 
delin  in  Normandy,  defendant.  And  hereby 
are  invited  all  knights  of  Christian  countries 
not  at  variance  with  our  Lord  Duke,  to  take 
part  in  the  said  tourney  for  the  glory  of 
Knighthood  and  the  fame  of  their  Ladies." 

Favriole  finished,  smiling  and  important,  and 
from  behind  him  rose  a  little  buzz  of  interest. 
For,  at  sound  of  the  trumpet,  almost  all  the 
Castle  company  had  hurried  from  their  vari 
ous  retreats  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  un 
toward  sound.  In  this  group,  not  foremost, 
standing  rather  a  little  back  from  the  rest,  was 
Lenore,  gravely  regarding  Gerault,  where  he 
sat  with  the  parchment  before  him.  She  had 
recognized  Favriole,  the  herald,  for  a  familiar 
figure  in  the  lists  at  that  long-past  tournament 
where  she  had  first  thought  of  being  lady  of 
her  lord;  and  she  grew  a  little  white  under 
the  memories  that  the  herald  brought  her. 
Gerault  had  seen  her  at  the  first  moment  of 
her  coming,  and,  as  soon  as  Favriole  finished 
his  announcement,  beckoned  her  to  his  side. 
[216] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

^<^m^x^<^^~<^--g^s^^^>^;-<^g--<r>fr-v;^>gr-^^ 

She  came  forward  to  him  quietly,  and  took  her 
place,  acknowledging  the  pleased  salute  of  the 
visitor  with  the  slightest  inclination  of  her  gold 
en  head.  When  she  was  seated  at  the  table, 
Gerault,  who  had  risen  at  her  coming,  spoke  : 

"  Our  thanks  to  you,  Sir  Herald,  for  your 
message,  which  you  have  come  a  long  and 
weary  way  to  bear  to  the  one  spurred  knight 
in  this  house.  And  devotion  to  our  Lord, 
Duke  Jean,  who  — "  Gerault  paused.  His 
mother  had  just  come  to  the  room  and  halted 
on  the  threshold,  a  little  in  front  of  the  gen 
eral  group,  her  eyes  travelling  swiftly  from 
Favriole's  face  to  that  of  Lenore.  Gerault, 
his  thought  broken,  hesitated  for  an  instant, 
and  turned  also  to  look  at  his  wife.  Instantly 
Lenore  rose,  and  advanced  a  step  or  two  to 
his  side.  Then  she  said  in  a  curiously  plead 
ing  tone,  — 

"  I  do  humbly  entreat  my  lord  that  he  will 
not  refuse  to  enter  this  tournament;  but  that 
he  will  at  once  set  out  for  Rennes,  there  to 
fight  for  —  for  c  the  glory  of  his  Knighthood, 
and  the  —  the  fame  of  his  —  Ladies' !  ' 

When  Lenore  had  spoken  she  found  the 
whole  room  staring  at  her  in  open  amazement. 
[217] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Gerault  gave  his  wife  a  glance  that  brought  her 
a  moment's  bitter  satisfaction,  —  a  look  filled 
with  astonishment  and  discomfort.  Long  he 
gazed  at  her,  but  could  find  no  softening 
curve  in  her  white,  set  face.  Every  line  in 
her  figure  bade  him  go.  At  length,  then,  he 
turned  back  to  Favriole,  with  something  that 
resembled  a  sigh,  and  continued  his  speech. 

"  Sir  Herald,  carry  my  name  for  the  lists ; 
and  my  word  that  on  the  fifteenth  day  of  this 
month  I  shall  be  in  Rennes,  armed  and  horsed 
for  the  tourney.  My  challenge  shall  be  sent 
anon.  —  Courtoise!  Take  thine  ancient  com 
rade  to  the  keep,  and  find  him  refreshment  ere 
he  proceeds  upon  his  way." 

Courtoise  bowed,  wearing  an  expression  of 
mingled  pleasure  and  disapproval,  and  pres 
ently  he  and  the  herald  left  the  room  to 
gether,  followed  by  all  the  young  esquires. 
After  their  disappearance  the  demoiselles  also 
wandered  off  to  their  pursuits,  and  presently 
Gerault,  Eleanore,  and  Lenore  were  left  alone 
in  the  long  room.  Eleanore  stood  still,  just 
where  she  was,  and  looked  once,  searchingly, 
from  the  face  of  her  son  to  that  of  his  wife. 
Then  she  addressed  Gerault :  "  See  that  thou 
[218] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 


come  to  me  to-night,  when  I  am  alone  in  my 
chamber.  I  would  talk  with  thee,  Gerault." 
And  with  another  look  that  had  in  it  a  sug 
gestion  of  disdain,  madame  turned  and  went 
out  of  the  room. 

When  she  was  gone  the  knight  drew  a  long 
sigh,  and  then,  with  an  air  of  apprehensive 
inquiry,  faced  Lenore.  At  once  she  rose  and, 
with  a  very  humble  courtesy,  started  also  to 
depart.  But  Gerault,  whose  bewilderment  at 
the  situation  was  changing  to  anxiety,  said 
sharply  :  "  Stay,  Lenore  !  Thou  shalt  not  go 
till  we  have  spoken  together." 

Immediately  she  returned  to  her  place  and 
sat  down.  She  gave  him  one  swift  glance  from 
under  her  lashes,  and  then  remained  in  silence, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor. 

At  the  same  time  the  Seigneur  got  to  his 
feet  and  began  to  pace  unevenly  up  and  down 
the  room.  His  step  was  sufficient  evidence  of 
his  agitation  ;  but  it  was  many  minutes  before 
he  suddenly  halted,  turning  to  his  wife  and 
saying  in  a  tone  of  command :  "  Tell  me, 
Lenore,  why  thou  biddest  me  go  forth  into 
this  tournament." 

"Ah,  my  lord — do  not — I  —  "she  paused, 
[219] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

and,  from  flushing  vividly,  her  face  grew  white 
again  :  "  Thou  wilt  be  happier  in  Rennes,  my 
lord." 

"  How  say  you  that  ?  Were  I  not  happier 
at  home  here  with  my  bride  ?  " 

"  Asks  my  lord  wherefore  ?  "  answered 
Lenore,  in  a  tone  containing  something  that 
Gerault  could  not  understand. 

"  Nay,  then,  I  ask  thee  naught  but  this : 
wouldst  thou,  all  for  thyself,  of  thine  own  will, 
have  me  go  ?  Dost  thou  in  thy  heart  desire 
it  ? " 

Lenore  drew  her  head  a  little  high,  and 
looked  him  full  in  the  face  :  "  For  myself,  for 
mine  own  selfish  desires,  of  mine  own  will,  I 
entreat  thee  by  that  which  through  thy  life 
thou  hast  held  most  dear,  to  go  ! " 

Gerault  stared  at  her,  some  vague  distrust 
that  was  entering  his  mind  continually  foiled  by 
the  open-eyed  clearness  of  her  look.  Finally, 
then,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  as  he 
turned  away  from  her,  he  said :  "  Be  satis 
fied,  madame.  I  do  your  bidding.  I  give 
you  what  pleasure  I  can.  In  ten  days'  time 
I  shall  set  off;  and  thou  wilt  be  unfettered  in 
this  Crepuscule ! " 

[220] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

And  with  this  last  ungenerous  and  angry 
taunt,  the  Seigneur,  his  brain  seething  with 
some  emotion  that  he  could  not  define,  strode 
from  the  room.  Lenore  rose  as  he  left  her, 
and  followed  him,  unsteadily,  half-way  to  the 
door.  He  went  out  of  the  Castle  without 
once  looking  back,  and  when  he  was  quite 
gone,  the  young  girl  felt  her  way  blindly  to 
the  chair  where  she  had  sat,  and  crouching 
down  in  it,  burst  into  a  flood  of  repressed 
and  desperate  tears. 

When  Gerault  left  Lenore's  side,  he  was  no 
whit  happier  than  she.  After  the  herald  had 
made  his  announcement  of  the  tourney,  and 
Gerault  had  begun  his  .reply,  it  was  his  intent 
to  refuse  to  go,  though  in  his  secret  heart  he 
longed  eagerly  to  be  off  to  that  city  of  gay 
forgetfulness.  But  when  his  wife,  Lenore,  the 
clinging  child,  besought  him,  with  every  ap 
pearance  of  sincerity,  to  leave  her,  he  heard 
her  with  less  of  satisfaction  than  with  surprised 
disappointment.  Now  he  fought  with  himself; 
now  he  questioned  her  motive  ;  again  he  longed 
for  Rennes  and  the  tourney.  Finally,  there 
rushed  over  him  the  detestable  deceit  in  his 
own  attitude ;  and  he  began  to  curse  himself 
[221  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

for  what,  sometimes,  he  was,  —  the  most  intoler 
ant  and  the  most  selfish  of  tyrants.  In  these 
varying  moods  Gerault  rode,  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon,  over  the  dry  moors,  hawk  on 
wrist,  but  finding  his  own  thoughts,  unhappy 
as  they  were,  more  engrossing  than  possible 
quarries.  He  returned  late  —  when  the  even 
ing  meal  was  nearly  at  an  end ;  and  he  per 
ceived,  with  dull  disappointment,  that  Lenore 
was  not  at  table.  Madame  presently  informed 
him  that  she  lay  in  bed,  sick  of  a  headache ; 
and  this  was  all  the  conversation  in  which  he 
indulged  while  he  ate  his  hurried  meal.  But 
as  soon  as  grace  was  said  and  the  company 
had  risen,  Gerault  started  to  the  stairs.  In 
stantly  his  mother  caught  his  sleeve  and  held 
him  back,  saying, — 

"  Go  not  to  thy  room.  She  has  perchance 
fallen  asleep  by  now  ;  and  she  should  not  be 
wakened,  for  she  hath  been  very  ill.  Seek 
thou  rather  my  bedchamber,  and  there  pres 
ently  I  will  come  to  thee ;  for  I  have  some 
what  that  I  would  say  to  thee,  Gerault." 

Feeling  as  he  had  sometimes  felt  when,  in 
his  early  boyhood,  he  had  waited  punishment 
for  some  boyish  misdeed,  the  Seigneur  obeyed 
[222] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 


his  mother,  and  went  up  to  her  room,  which 
was  now  wrapped  in  close-gathering  shadows. 
Here,  a  few  moments  later,  Eleanore  found 
him,  pacing  up  and  down,  his  arms  folded, 
his  head  bent  upon  his  breast,  a  dark  frown 
upon  his  brows.  The  windows  were  open  to 
the  evening,  and,  like  some  witchcraft  spell,  its 
sweetness  entered  into  Gerault,  penetrating  to 
his  brain,  and  once  again  turning  his  thoughts 
to  the  spirit  that  haunted  all  Le  Crepuscule 
for  him. 

Madame  came  into  the  room,  drawing  the 
iron-bound  door  shut  behind  her,  and  pushing 
the  tapestry  curtain  over  it.  Then,  without 
speaking,  she  crossed  the  room,  seated  herself 
on  her  settle  beside  the  window,  and  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  moving  form  of  her  son. 
Under  her  look  Gerault  grew  more  restless 
still  ;  and  he  was  about  to  break  the  silence 
when  presently  she  said,  in  a  low,  rather 
grating  tone:  "Know,  Gerault,  that  I  am 
grieved  with  thee." 

He  turned  to  her  at  once  with  a  little  ges 
ture  of  deprecation ;  but  she  went  on  speaking  : 

"  Thou  hast  brought  home  from  Rennes  a 

wife  :  a  fair  maid  and  a  gentle  as  any  that  hath 

T 

J 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

ever  lived ;  and  moreover  one  that  loves  thee 
but  too  well.  In  her  little  time  of  dwelling 
here  she  hath,  by  her  quiet,  lovely  ways,  crept 
close  into  my  heart,  that  was  erstwhile  so  bit 
terly  empty.  And  having  her  here,  and  see 
ing  her  growing  devotion  to  thee,  her  contin 
ual  striving  to  please  thee  in  thine  every  desire, 
methought  that  thou,  a  knight  sworn  to  chiv 
alry,  must  needs  treat  her  with  more  than 
tenderness.  Yet  that  hast  thou  not,  Gerault. 
Dieu  !  Thou  'rt  all  but  cruel  with  her  !  God 
knows  thy  father  came  to  be  not  over-thought 
ful  in  his  love  of  me.  Yet  had  he  neglected 
and  spurned  me  in  our  early  marriage  as  thou 
hast  this  bride  of  thine,  I  had  surely  made  end 
of  myself  or  ever  thou  earnest  into  the  world. 
Shame  it  is  to  thee  and  to  all  mankind  how  —  " 
"  Madame  !  Madame  !  —  Forbear  !  " 
At  his  tone,  Eleanore  held  her  peace,  while 
Gerault,  after  a  deep  pause,  in  which  he  re 
gained  his  self-control,  began, — 

"  Canst  thou  remember,  my  mother,  a  talk 
that  we  —  thou  and  I  together  in  this  room  — 
held  one  afternoon  more  than  a  year  agone  ? 
'T  was  in  this  room,  the  day  before  I  went 
last  to  Rennes.  Thou  didst  entreat  me  to 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 


bring  thee  back  a  wife  to  be  thy  daughter  in 
the  place  of  Laure. 

"At  that  hour  the  idea  was  impossible  to 
me.  Thou  knowest  —  'fore  God  thou  know- 
est  —  the  suffering  that  time  has  never  eased 
for  me.  A  thousand  times  I  had  vowed  then, 
a  hundred  times  I  swore  thereafter,  that  the 
image  of  mine  own  Lenore  should  never  be 
replaced  within  my  heart ;  and  it  holds  there 
to-day  as  fair  and  clear  as  if  it  were  but  yes 
terday  she  went. 

"  Many  months  passed  away,  madame,  and 
I  saw  this  golden-haired  maiden  about  Rennes, 
—  in  the  Ladies'  Gallery  in  the  lists,  and  at 
feasts  in  the  Castle  ;  yet  I  had  never  a  thought 
in  my  heart  of  wedding  with  her.  Then  — 
late  in  the  spring  —  St.  Nazaire  sent  me  mes 
sage  of  Laure's  disgrace,  her  excommunica 
tion  ;  and  my  heart  bled  for  thee.  I  sent 
out  many  men  to  search  my  sister,  but  not 
one  ever  gathered  trace  of  her.  Then,  when 
there  was  no  further  hope  of  restoring  her 
to  thee,  the  idea  of  marriage  came  to  me  for 
the  first  time  as  a  duty  —  toward  thee.  My 
whole  soul  cried  out  against  it.  Lenore  de 
Laval  reproached  me  from  the  heaven  where 
[  15  ]  [  225  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

G5SXS5S^S^=S^SSS2SSS=S=S3£^=S^=S5£S£=£S=£iS3SS3S^ 

she  dwells.  And  yet — in  the  end  —  for  thy 
sake,  madame,  I  brought  home  with  me  the 
gentle  child  men  call  my  wife. 

"  I  confess  it  to  thee  only :  I  do  not  love 
her.  Yet  indeed  none  can  say  that  I  have 
used  her  ill,  save  as  I  could  not  bring  myself 
falsely  to  act  the  ardent  lover.  If  she  hath 
been  unhappy,  then  am  I  greatly  grieved. 
Yet  what  hath  she  not  that  women  do  desire 
in  life  ?  What  lacks  there  of  honor  or  of 
pleasure  in  her  estate  ?  Moreover,  if  she 
has  lost  her  own  mother,  hath  she  not  gained 
thee,  dear  lady  of  mine?  Mon  Dieu,  ma- 
dame,  —  think  not  so  ill  of  me.  I  swear 
that  for  me  she  yearns  not  at  all.  Even  this 
afternoon,  when  all  of  you  had  departed  from 
the  long  room,  she  did  implore  me,  with  sin- 
cerest  speech,  that  I  depart  at  early  date  for 
Rennes.  How  likes  you  that  ?  And  more 
over,  to  all  my  questioning,  she  did  stoutly 
deny  that  my  going  would  be  for  aught  but 
her  own  pleasure,  and  would  in  no  way  grieve 
her  heart."  And  Gerault  stared  upon  his 
mother  with  the  assured  and  exasperated  look 
of  a  doubly  injured  man. 

Madame  Eleanore  drew  herself  together  and 
[  226  ] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 


set  her  lips  in  the  firm  resolve  still  to  treat  her 
son  with  consideration.  When  she  began  to 
speak,  her  manner  was  calm  and  her  voice  low 
and  quiet;  yet  in  her  eyes  there  gleamed  a  fire 
that  was  not  born  of  patience.  "  So,  Gerault ! 
Doubtless  all  thou  sayest  is  sooth  to  thee ; 
yet  I  would  tell  thee  this  :  when  thou  left'st 
her  alone,  I  came  upon  her  still  sitting  in  the 
long  room,  leaning  her  head  upon  the  table 
where  thou  hadst  sat,  weeping  as  if  her  heart 
was  like  to  break.  And  when  her  sobs  were 
still  I  brought  her  up  to  her  room  and 
caused  her  to  remove  her  garments  and  to 
seek  her  bed,  though  all  the  while  she  shook 
with  inward  grief,  till  Alixe  brought  her  a 
posset,  and  bathed  her  head  in  elder-flower 
water,  and  then,  at  last,  she  slept." 

"  And  gave  she  no  name  to  thee  as  cause 
for  her  malady  ?  " 

"  Art  thou  indeed  so  ignorant  of  us  ?  Or 
is  it  heartlessness  ?  Wilt  thou  go  to 
Rennes  ? " 

"Hath  she  not  required  me  to  go?  Good 
Heavens,  madame  !  what  wouldst  have  me 
do  ? "  he  answered  with  weary  impatience. 

"  Gerault,  Gerault,  if  I  could  by  prayer  or 
[227  J 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

anger  make  thee  to  understand  for  one  instant 
only!  Ah,  'tis  the  same  tale  that  every  wo 
man  has  to  tell.  It  was  so  with  me.  In  my 
early  youth  I  was  brought  from  bright  Laval, 
where  I  was  a  queen  of  gayety  and  life,  to  rule 
alone  over  this  great  Twilight  Castle.  Thy 
grandam  was  dead ;  and  there  was  no  other 
woman  of  my  station  here.  In  a  few  months 
after  my  home-coming  as  a  bride,  thy  father 
rode  away  to  join  the  army  of  Montfort  in  the 
East.  From  that  time  1  saw  my  lord  but  a 
few  weeks  in  every  year ;  for  the  war  lasted 
till  I  had  reached  the  age  of  four-and-thirty. 
Thou  earnest  to  cheer  my  loneliness  ;  and  then, 
long  after,  Laure.  And  at  last,  when  Laure 
was  in  her  first  babyhood,  seventeen  years 
agone,  the  long  struggle  ended  at  Auray ;  and 
then  my  lord,  sore  wounded  in  his  last  fight, 
came  home.  Alas  !  I  was  no  happier  for  his 
coming.  He  had  suffered  much,  and  he  was 
no  longer  young.  We  two,  so  long  separated, 
were  almost  as  strangers  one  to  the  other. 
Thou  wast  his  great  pride  ;  dost  remember 
how  he  loved  to  have  thee  near  him  ?  And 
many  a  time  it  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  hear  the 
bloody,  valorous  tales  he  poured  into  thine 
[228] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

ears ;  for  I  knew  by  them  that  he  meant  thee 
to  do  what  he  had  done.  It  was  not  till  he 
lay  in  his  mortal  sickness  that  we  came  back 
one  to  the  other ;  but  he  died  in  my  arms, 
whispering  to  me  such  words  as  I  had  never 
had  from  him  before.  That  last  is  a  sweet 
memory,  Gerault ;  but  the  tale  is  none  the  less 
grievous  of  my  young  life  here.  And  there  is 
the  more  pity  of  it  that  mine  is  not  the  only 
story  of  such  things.  Many  and  many  is  the 
weary  life  led  by  some  high-born  lady  in  her 
castle,  while  her  lord  fights  or  jousts  or  drinks 
his  life  out  in  his  own  selfishness.  Through 
those  long  years  of  the  war  of  the  Three 
Jeannes,  I  suffered  not  alone  of  women  ;  and 
how  I  suffered,  thou  canst  never  know.  Do 
thou  not  likewise  with  thy  frail  Lenore.  Stay 
with  her  here  a  little  while,  and  make  her  life 
what  it  might  be  made  with  love." 

Gerault  listened  in  non-committal  silence. 
When  she  finished  he  turned  and  faced  her 
squarely  :  "  Hast  made  this  prate  of  my  father 
and  thee  to  Lenore  ? "  he  asked  severely. 

"  Gerault !  "  The  exclamation  escaped  in 
voluntarily  ;  when  it  was  out  Eleanore  bit  her 
lip  and  drew  herself  up  haughtily.  "  Thou  'rt 
[229] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

insolent,"  she  said  in  a  tone  that  she  would 
have  used  to  an  inferior. 

In  that  moment  her  son  found  something  in 
her  to  admire,  but  the  man  and  master  in  him 
was  all  alive.  "  Madame,  we  will  waste  no 
further  words.  I  crave  the  honor  to  wish  you 
a  good  night."  And  with  a  profound  and 
ironical  bow,  he  turned  from  the  room,  leaving 
Eleanore  alone  to  the  darkness,  and  to  what 
was  a  defeat  as  bitter  as  any  she  had  ever 
known. 

Through  the  watches  of  the  night  this 
woman  did  not  pray,  but  sat  and  meditated 
on  the  immense  question  that  she  had  herself 
raised,  and  to  which  she  had  not  the  courage 
to  give  the  true  answer.  Through  her  nearest 
and  dearest  she  had  learned  the  natures  of  men, 
knew  full  well  their  only  aims  and  interest: 
prowess  in  arms,  hunting,  hawking,  drinking, 
and,  when  they  were  weary,  dalliance  with  their 
women.  But  was  this  all?  Was  this  all  there 
was  for  any  woman  in  the  mind  of  the  man 
that  loved  her  ?  The  idea  of  rebellion  against 
the  scorn  of  men  was  not  at  all  in  her  mind. 
She  only  wondered  sadly  how  she  and  others 
of  her  sex  came  to  be  born  so  keenly  sentient, 
[230] 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

cg?g«5=sgs^5P^g>e^sj^^^g><sr-g^^^ 

so  open  to  heart-wounds  as  they  were.  And 
she  divined  that  her  question  burned  no  less 
in  the  brain  of  the  young  Lenore  than  in  her 
own,  though  neither  of  them  ever  spoke  of 
it  together.  Nor  did  either  make  any  round 
about  inquiries  as  to  Gerault's  intentions  with 
regard  to  Rennes.  Not  so,  however,  the 
demoiselles  of  the  Castle.  Courtoise  was  un 
der  a  hot  fire  of  inquisition  throughout  most 
of  the  following  two  days ;  but  for  once  he 
himself  was  uncertain  of  his  lord's  move,  and 
presently  there  was  a  little  air  of  joy  creeping 
over  the  place  in  the  shape  of  a  hope  that  the 
Seigneur  was  going  to  remain  in  Crepuscule. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  secret  idea  of  Courtoise ; 
and  only  David  the  dwarf  refused  to  entertain 
a  suspicion  that  Gerault  would  not  ride  to 
Rennes  for  the  tourney. 

David  judged  well ;  for  Gerault  went  to 
Rennes.  Lenore  knew  on  the  tenth  of  the 
month  that  he  would  go.  Madame  remained 
in  doubt  till  the  day  before  the  departure. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twelfth  the  whole 

Castle  was  astir  by  dawn.     Gerault  and  his 

squire,  bravely  arrayed,  came   into   the  great 

hall  at  five  o'clock,  and  sat  down  to  their  early 

[231] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

meal.  On  the  right  hand  of  the  Seigneur  was 
Lenore,  not  eating,  only  looking  about  her 
on  the  fresh  morning  light,  and  again  into 
Gerault's  face.  She  was  not  under  any  stress 
of  emotion.  She  was,  rather,  very  dull  and 
heavy-eyed.  Yet  down  in  her  heart  lay  a 
smothered  pain  that  she  felt  must  come  forth 
before  long,  in  what  form  she  could  not  tell. 
She  and  Gerault  did  not  talk  much  together. 
There  was  a  little  strain  between  them  that 
was  none  the  less  certain  because  it  was  inde 
finable,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  the  young  wife 
when  madame  finally  appeared.  Lenore  saw 
Eleanore's  face  with  something  of  surprise. 
Never  had  it  been  so  cold,  so  expression 
less,  so  like  a  piece  of  chiselled  marble ;  and 
looking  upon  her  son,  it  grew  yet  harder, 
yet  colder.  But  when  madame,  after  some 
little  parley  with  Courtoise,  turned  finally  to 
Lenore,  the  child-wife  found  something  in  that 
face  that  came  dangerously  near  to  melting  her 
apathy,  and  freeing  the  flood  of  grief  that  lay 
deep  in  her  heart. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  knight  and  his  squire 
were  in  the  courtyard,  where  their  horses  stood 
ready  for  the  mount.  The  little  company  of 


TO    A    TRUMPET-CALL 

??<=r?S!*g^?-'K?i;g<^<r>«r*grg-ssg?«va^'^^ 

the  Castle  gathered  close  about  their  master, 
watching  him  as  they  might  have  watched 
some  mythical  god.  Indeed,  he  was  a  brave 
sight,  as  he  stood  there  in  the  early  sunshine, 
flashing  with  armor,  a  gray  plume  floating 
from  his  helmet,  and  one  of  Lenore's  small 
gloves  fastened  over  his  visor  as  a  gage. 
Lenore  beheld  this  with  infinite,  gentle  pride, 
as  she  stood  fixing  his  great  lance  in  its 
socket.  Presently  two  of  the  squires  helped 
him  to  mount  to  the  saddle ;  and  when  he 
was  seated,  he  lifted  Lenore  up  to  him  to 
give  her  good-bye.  A  few  tears  ran  from  her 
eyes,  and  rolled  silently  down  his  breastplate, 
on  which  they  gleamed  like  clustered  dia 
monds.  But  Lenore  wiped  them  away  with 
her  hair,  that  they  might  not  tarnish  the  metal 
of  his  trappings;  and  by  that  act,  perhaps, 
Gerault  lost  a  blessing. 

The  last  kiss  that  he  gave  her  was  a  long 
one,  and  his  last  words  almost  tender.  Then, 
putting  her  to  the  ground  again,  he  saluted 
his  mother,  though  her  coldness  struck  him 
to  the  heart ;  and,  after  a  final  farewell  to  the 
assembled  company,  he  turned  and  gave  the 
sign  of  departure  to  Courtoise. 
[233] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Spur  struck  flank.  At  the  same  instant,  the 
two  horses  darted  forward  to  the  drawbridge, 
across  which  they  had  presently  clattered. 
Alixe,  who  had  been  a  silent  spectator  of  the 
scene  of  departure,  was  standing  near  Lenore  ; 
and  now  she  leaned  over  and  would  have  whis 
pered  in  the  young  wife's  ear;  but  Lenore  could 
not  have  heard  her  had  she  spoken.  The  child 
stood  like  a  statue,  blind  to  everything  save  to 
the  blaze  of  passing  armor,  deaf  to  all  but  the 
echo  of  flying  hoofs.  Here  she  stood,  in  the 
centre  of  the  courtyard,  alone  with  her  strange 
little  life,  watching  the  swift-running  steed  carry 
from  her  all  her  power  of  joy.  With  straining 
eyes  she  saw  the  two  figures  disappear  down 
the  long,  winding  hill ;  and  when  they  had 
gone,  and  only  a  lazily  rising  dust-cloud  re 
mained  to  mark  their  path,  she  stayed  there 
still.  But  presently  Eleanore  came  to  her 
side  and  took  her  cold  hand  in  a  hot  pressure. 
And  then,  as  the  two  bereft  women  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  the  frozen  grief  melted 
at  last,  and  the  flood  burst  upon  them  in  all 
its  overwhelming  fury. 


[234] 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE  STORM 


OR  ten  days  after  Gerault's 
departure,  Lenore  led  a  disas 
trous  mental  existence,  which 
she  expressed  neither  by  words 
nor  by  deeds.  In  that  time 
no  one  in  the  Castle  knew  how 
she  was  rent  and  torn  with  anguish,  with  yearn 
ing  that  had  never  been  satisfied,  and  with  use 
less  regret  for  a  bygone  happiness  that  had  not 
been  happy.  The  silent  progress  of  her  grief 
led  her  into  dark  valleys  of  despair ;  yet  none 
dreamed  in  what  depths  she  wandered.  She, 
the  woman  chaste  and  pure,  dared  not  try  to 
comprehend  all  that  went  on  within  her.  She 
dared  not  picture  to  herself  what  it  was  she 
really  longed  for  so  bitterly.  The  cataclysms 
that  rent  her  mind  in  twain  were  unholy  things, 
and,  had  she  been  normal,  she  might  have 
[  235  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


refused  to  acknowledge  them.  The  changes 
in  her  life  had  come  upon  her  with  such  over 
whelming  swiftness  that  she  had  hitherto  had 
no  time  for  analysis ;  and  now  that  she  found 
herself  with  a  long  leisure  in  which  to  think, 
the  chaos  of  her  mind  seemed  hopeless ;  she 
despaired  of  coming  again  into  understanding 
with  herself. 

During  all  these  days  Madame  Eleanore 
watched  her  closely,  but  to  little  purpose.  The 
calm  outward  demeanor  of  the  young  woman 
baffled  every  suspicion  of  her  inward  state. 
Day  after  day  Lenore  sat  at  work  in  the 
whirring,  noisy  spinning-room,  toiling  upon 
her  tapestry  with  a  diligence  and  a  persistent 
silence  that  defied  encroachment.  Hour  after 
hour  her  eyes  would  rest  upon  the  dim,  blue 
sea ;  for  that  sea  was  the  only  thing  that 
seemed  to  possess  the  power  of  stilling  her 
inward  rebellion.  Forgetting  how  the  winds 
could  sometimes  drive  its  sparkling  surface 
into  a  furious  stretch  of  tumbling  waters,  she 
dreamed  of  making  her  own  spirit  as  placid 
and  as  quiet  as  the  ocean.  The  thought 
was  inarticulate ;  but  it  grew,  even  in  the 
midst  of  her  inward  tumult,  till  in  the  end 
[236] 


THE    STORM 


it  brought  her  something  of  the  quiet  she  so 
sorely  needed. 

By  day  and  by  night,  through  every  hour, 
in  every  place,  the  figure  of  her  husband  was 
always  before  her.  How  unspeakably  she 
wanted  him,  she  herself  could  not  have  put 
into  words.  She  knew  well  that  he  had  prom 
ised  to  come  back  —  "  soon."  But  when  every 
hour  is  replete  with  hidden  anguish,  can  a  day 
be  short  ?  Can  ten  days  be  less  than  an  eter 
nity  ?  a  possible  month  of  delay  less  than 
unutterable  ? 

One  little  oasis  Lenore  found  for  herself  in 
this  waste  of  time.  Every  day  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  pray  upon  her  rosary,  which 
was  composed  of  sixty-two  white  beads.  Now, 
when  she  had  said  her  morning  prayer,  she  tied 
a  little  red  string  above  the  first  bead.  On  the 
second  morning  it  was  moved  up  over  the 
second  bead ;  and  so  the  sacred  chain  became 
a  still  more  sacred  calendar.  How  many  times 
did  she  halt  in  her  prayers  to  find  the  thirtieth 
bead  !  and  how  her  heart  sank  when  she  saw  it 
still  so  very  far  from  the  little  line  of  red ! 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  of  the  Seigneur's 
absence,  it  came  to  Madame  Eleanore  with  a 
[237] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

start  that  Lenore  was  growing  paler  and  more 
wan.  Then  a  suspicion  of  what  the  young 
wife  was  suffering  came  to  the  older  woman, 
and  she  racked  her  brains  to  think  of  possible 
diversions  for  the  forlorn  girl.  A  hawking 
party  was  arranged,  which  Madame  Eleanore 
herself  led,  on  her  good  gray  horse.  And  in 
this  every  one  discovered  with  some  surprise 
that  Lenore  could  sit  a  horse  as  easily  as  the 
young  squires,  and  that  she  managed  her  bird 
as  well  as  any  man.  Alixe,  who  had  always 
been  the  one  woman  in  the  Castle  to  make  a 
practice  of  riding  after  the  dogs,  or  with  hawk 
on  wrist,  was  filled  with  delight  to  find  this 
unexpected  companion  for  her  sports ;  and  she 
decided  that  henceforth  Lenore  should  take  the 
place  of  her  old  companion,  Laure,  in  her  life. 
The  hawking  party  accomplished  part  of 
its  purpose,  at  least ;  for  Lenore  returned  from 
the  ride  with  some  color  in  her  face  and  a 
sparkle  in  her  eyes.  She  was  obliged,  however, 
to  take  to  her  bed  shortly  after  reaching  the 
Castle,  prostrated  by  a  fatigue  that  was  not 
natural.  Madame  hovered  over  her  anxiously 
all  through  the  night,  though  she  slept  more 
than  in  any  night  of  late,  and  rose  next  morn- 
[238] 


THE    STORM 


ing  at  the  usual  hour,  much  refreshed.  That 
afternoon,  when  the  work  was  through,  madame 
saw  no  harm  in  her  riding  out  with  Alixe  for 
an  hour,  to  give  a  lesson  to  two  young  mues 
that  were  jessed  and  belled  for  the  first  time. 
And  during  this  ride  the  young  women  made 
great  strides  in  companionship. 

What  with  new  interest  in  an  old  pastime 
thus  awakened,  and  a  subject  of  common 
delight  between  her  and  Alixe,  Lenore  found 

D  • 

the  next  nine  days  pass  more  quickly  than  the 
first.  On  the  morning  of  the  thirty-first  of  the 
month,  however,  Lenore  had  a  serious  fainting- 
spell  in  the  spinning-room.  She  had  been  at 
work  at  her  frame  for  an  hour  or  more,  when 
suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  steel  had 
pierced  her  heart,  and  she  fell  backward  in 
her  chair  with  a  cry.  The  women  hurried  to 
her,  and  after  some  moments  of  chafing  her 
hands  and  temples,  and  forcing  cordials  down 
her  throat,  she  was  brought  back  to  con 
sciousness.  Her  first  words  were  :  "  Gerault ! 
Gerault !  "  and  then  in  a  still  fainter  voice : 
"  Save  him,  Courtoise  !  He  falls  !  " 

Thinking   her   out  of  her   mind,    madame 
carried    her  to   her  bedroom,  and,   admitting 
[239] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

g~*:^7^Tr'':r''fT''5~~°r'g^r'g~S'gxr''g^^ 

only  Alixe  with  her,  quickly  undressed  the 
slender  body,  and  laid  Lenore  in  the  great 
bed.  Presently  she  opened  her  blue  eyes,  and, 
looking  up  into  madame's  face,  said,  in  a  voice 
shaking  with  weakness, — 

"It  was  a  dream  —  a  vision  —  a  terrible  vis 
ion  !  I  saw  Gerault —  killed !  My  God  !  "  she 
put  her  hands  to  the  sides  of  her  head,  in  the 
attitude  that  a  terrified  woman  will  take.  "  I 
saw  him —  Ah  !  But  it  is  gone,  now.  It  is 
gone.  Tell  me  't  was  a  dream  !  " 

Madame  and  Alixe  soothed  her,  smoothing 
the  hair  back  from  her  brow,  patting  her  hands, 
and  giving  her  all  the  comfort  that  they  knew. 
Presently  Lenore  was  calm  again,  and  asked  to 
rise.  Madame,  however,  forbade  this,  insist 
ing  that  she  should  keep  to  her  bed  all  day ; 
and  through  the  afternoon  either  she  or  Alixe 
remained  in  the  room,  sewing,  and  talking 
fitfully  with  Lenore.  The  young  wife,  how 
ever,  seemed  inclined  to  silence.  A  shadow 
of  melancholy  had  stolen  upon  her,  and  there 
was  a  cold  clutch  at  her  heart  that  she  did  not 
understand.  Eleanore  had  her  own  theory  in 
regard  to  the  illness,  and  Alixe,  whatever  she 
might  have  noticed,  had  nothing  to  say  about  it. 
[240] 


THE    STORM 


Next  morning,  the  morning  of  the  first 
of  September,  Lenore  rose  to  go  about  her 
usual  tasks,  seeming  no  worse  for  the  attack  of 
the  day  before,  except  that  her  melancholy  con 
tinued.  WoYk  in  the  spinning-room  that  day, 
however,  was  cut  short  on  account  of  the  heat, 
which  was  more  oppressive  than  it  had  been  at 
any  time  during  the  summer.  Though  the 
sky  was  clear  and  the  sun  red  and  luminous, 
the  air  was  heavy  with  moisture  ;  the  birds  flew 
close  to  the  ground  ;  spiders  were  busy  spinning 
heavy  webs ;  worms  and  insects  sought  the 
underside  of  leaves ;  and  all  things  pointed  to 
a  coming  storm.  At  noon  two  mendicant 
monks  came  to  the  Castle,  asking  dinner  as 
alms  ;  and  when  the  meal  was  over,  they  did 
not  proceed  upon  their  way.  The  bright  blue 
of  the  sky  was  beginning  to  be  obscured  by 
fragments  of  gathering  cloud,  and  in  the  infinite 
distance  could  be  heard  low  and  portentous 
murmurs.  The  sense  of  oppression  and  of 
apprehension  that  comes  with  the  approach  of 
any  disturbance  of  nature  was  strong  in  the 
Castle.  At  four  in  the  afternoon,  madame  had 
prayers  said  in  the  chapel,  and  there  was  a 
short  mass  for  safety  during  the  coming  storm. 
[  16  ]  [  241  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

After  this  service,  Lenore,  with  Alixe  and 
Roland  de  Bertaux,  went  out  to  walk  upon 
the  terrace  that  overlooked  the  water.  The 
sight  before  them  was  impressive.  The  whole 
sea,  from  shore  to  far  horizon,  lay  gray  and 
glassy,  flattened  by  the  weight  of  air  that 
overhung  it,  heavy  and  hot  with  moisture. 
The  sun  was  gone,  and  the  heart  of  the  sky 
palpitated  with  purple.  Flocks  of  gulls  wheeled 
round  the  Castle  towers,  screaming,  now  and 
then,  with  some  uneasy  dread  for  their  safety. 
The  air  grew  more  and  more  heavy,  till  one 
was  obliged  to  breathe  in  gasps,  and  the  sweat 
ran  down  the  body  like  rain.  The  moments 
grew  longer  and  quieter.  The  whole  world 
seemed  to  stop  moving  ;  and  the  birds,  veering 
along  the  cliffs,  moved  not  a  feather  of  their 
wings. 

After  that  it  came.  The  sky,  from  zenith 
to  water-line,  was  cut  with  a  lightning  sword, 
that  hissed  through  the  water-logged  gray  like 
molten  gold.  Then  followed  the  cry  of  pain 
from  the  wound,  —  such  a  roar  as  might  have 
come  from  the  throats  of  all  the  hell-hounds  at 
once.  There  was  a  quick  second  crash,  while 
at  the  same  instant  a  fire-ball  dropped  from 
[  242  J 


THE    STORM 


heaven  into  the  ocean,  curdling  the  waters 
where  it  fell.  Then,  fury  on  fury,  came  the 
storm,  —  wind  and  rain  and  fiercer  flashes,  the 
line  of  the  shower  on  the  sea  chased  eastward 
by  a  toppling  mass  of  rushing  foam.  With 
a  scream  the  flock  of  gulls  dashed  out  into 
the  mist  to  meet  it,  and  were  seen  no  more ; 
for  now  the  world  was  black,  and  everything 
out  of  shelter  was  in  a  whirling  chaos  of  spray 
and  rain. 

Inside  the  Castle  holy  candles  had  been 
lighted  in  every  room,  and  beside  them  were 
placed  manchets  of  blessed  bread,  considered 
to  be  of  great  efficacy  in  warding  off  lightning- 
strokes.  The  two  monks,  sincerely  grateful 
for  their  shelter  from  this  outburst,  knelt  to 
gether  in  the  chapel,  and  called  down  upon 
themselves  the  frightened  blessings  of  the 
company  by  praying  incessantly,  though  their 
voices  were  inaudible  in  the  tumult  of  the 
storm.  The  wind  shrieked  around  the  Castle 
towers.  Flashes  of  white  light,  instantly  fol 
lowed  by  long  rolls  of  thunder,  succeeded  each 
other  with  startling  rapidity.  And,  as  a  fierce, 
indeterminate  undertone  to  all  other  sounds, 
came  the  roaring  of  the  sea,  which  an  incom- 
[243] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

ing  tide  was  bringing  every  minute  higher  and 
closer  around  the  base  of  the  cliff  below. 

An  hour  went  by,  and  yet  another,  and 
instead  of  diminishing  in  fury,  the  wind  seemed 
only  to  increase.  None  in  the  Castle,  not 
madame  herself,  could  remember  a  summer 
storm  of  such  duration.  Every  momentary 
lull  brought  after  it  a  still  more  violent  attack, 
and  the  longer  it  lasted,  the  greater  grew  the 
nervousness  of  the  Castle  inmates  ;  for  to  them 
this  meant  the  anger  of  God  for  the  sins  of 
His  children.  The  evening  meal  was  eaten 
amid  repeated  prayers  for  mercy  and  protec 
tion  ;  and  shortly  thereafter,  the  little  company 
dispersed  and  crept  away  to  bed,  —  not  because 
of  any  hope  of  sleep,  but  because  there  would 
be  a  certain  comfort  in  crouching  down  in  a 
warm  shelter  and  drawing  the  blankets  close 
overhead.  The  demoiselles,  for  the  most 
part,  and  possibly  the  squires  too,  huddled  two 
or  three  in  a  room.  The  monks  were  lodged 
together  in  the  servants'  quarters ;  and  of  all 
that  castleful,  only  the  women  for  whom  it  was 
kept  were  unafraid  to  be  alone.  Eleanore, 
Lenore,  and  Alixe  sought  each  her  bed;  but  of 
them  madame  only  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep. 
[244] 


THE    STORM 


Lenore  found  herself  terribly  restless  ;  and 
the  foreboding  in  her  mind  seemed  not  all 
the  effect  of  the  storm.  Her  thoughts  moved 
through  terrifying  shadows.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  some  great,  unknown  evil  hung  over 
her ;  but  her  apprehension  was  as  elusive  as 
it  was  unreasonable.  For  some  hours  she 
forced  herself  to  keep  in  bed,  tossing  and  twist 
ing  about,  but  letting  no  sound  escape  her.  It 
seemed  at  last  as  if  the  fury  of  the  wind  had 
diminished,  though  the  lightning-flashes  con 
tinued  incessantly,  and  the  whole  sky  was  still 
alive  with  muttering  thunder.  A  little  after 
midnight,  urged  by  a  restlessness  that  she  was 
powerless  to  control,  Lenore  rose,  threw  a 
loose  bliault  around  her,  took  down  the  iron 
lantern  that  hung,  dimly  burning,  on  a  hook 
in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and,  lighting  her  way 
with  this,  went  out  into  the  silent  upper  hall 
of  the  Castle. 

Gray  and  ghostly  enough  everything  looked, 
in  the  dim,  flickering  lantern-light.  There 
was  in  the  air  a  smell  of  pitchy  smoke  from 
burnt-out  torches,  and  it  seemed  to  Lenore  as 
if  spirits  were  passing  through  this  mist.  Yet 
she  felt  no  fear  of  anything  in  the  spirit  world. 
[245] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Her  heart  was  full  of  something  else,  —  a 
vague,  indefinable,  more  terrible  dread,  an 
oppression  that  she  could  not  reason  away. 
Clad  in  her  voluminous  purple  mantle,  with  her 
hair  unbound  and  flowing  over  her  shoulders, 
where  it  sparkled  faintly  in  the  lantern-light, 
she  went  down  the  stairs,  across  the  shadowy, 
pillared  spaces  of  the  great  lower  hall,  and  so 
into  the  long  room  where  Gerault  had  sat  on 
the  day  when  the  herald  had  come  to  call  him 
to  Rennes.  She  had  a  vision  of  him  sitting 
there  at  the  table,  bent  upon  his  manuscript 
philosophy,  never  looking  up,  as  again  and 
again  she  passed  the  door.  It  was  a  ghostly 
hour  for  her  to  be  abroad  and  occupied  in  such 
a  way;  yet  she  had  no  thought  of  present 
danger.  A  useless  sob  choked  her  as  she 
turned  away  from  this  place  of  sorrowful 
memories  and  went  to  the  chapel.  Here  half- 
a-dozen  candles  on  the  altar  were  still  burning 
to  the  god  of  the  storm  ;  and  Lenore,  find 
ing  comfort  in  the  sight  of  the  cross,  knelt 
before  it  and  offered  up  a  prayer  for  peace  of 
mind.  Then,  rising,  she  moved  back  again 
into  the  hall ;  and,  dreading  to  return  to  her 
lonely  room,  where  the  roar  of  waves  and  the 
[246J 


THE    STORM 

5?g-s>s^ssas^r'5~5S7-s.7-s5 

soughing  of  the  wind  round  the  towers  made 
a  din  too  great  for  sleep,  she  sat  down  on  a 
bench  that  stood  beside  a  pillar  directly  op 
posite  the  great,  locked  door.  Sitting  here, 
her  lantern  at  her  feet,  elbow  on  knee,  chin  on 
hand,  she  fell  into  a  strange  reverie.  The  bit 
terest  of  all  memories  came  back  to  her  with 
out  bitterness;  and  she  tried  to  picture  to 
herself  that  woman  of  Gerault's  secret  heart. 
What  had  she  been?  How  had  she  died? 
Or  was  she  dead?  In  what  relation  had  she 
really  stood  to  Gerault?  Was  she  that  cousin 
of  Laval  —  or  some  other?  These  thoughts, 
which,  always  before,  Lenore  had  refused  to 
work  into  definite  shape,  came  to  her  now  and 
were  not  repelled.  Her  musing  was  deepest 
when,  suddenly,  she  was  startled  by  the  sound 
of  light  footsteps  in  the  hall  above.  Some  one 
came  to  the  staircase;  some  one  came  gliding 
sinuously  down.  Lenore  half  rose,  and  looked 
up,  cold  with  fear.  Then  she  saw  that  it  was 
Alixe,  and,  strangely  enough,  her  fear  did  not 
lessen  ;  for  never  had  she  seen  Alixe  like  this. 

Lenore  looked  at  her  long  before  she  was 
noticed  ;   and  the  strangeness  of  the  peasant- 
born's  appearance  did  not  lessen  on  close  ex- 
[247] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

amination.  She  was  dressed  in  garments  of 
pale  green.  And  in  these,  and  in  her  floating 
hair,  her  greenish  eyes,  her  arms,  her  neck, 
Lenore  fancied  that  she  saw  twists  and  coils 
and  lissome  curves  and  the  green  and  golden 
fire  of  innumerable  snakes.  In  the  shadowy 
light  everything  was  indistinct;  but  there 
seemed  to  be  a  phosphorescent  glow  about 
Alixe's  garments  that  illumined  her,  till  she 
stood  out,  the  brightest  thing  in  the  surround 
ing  darkness.  Striving  bravely  to  ward  off 
her  sense  of  creeping  fear,  Lenore  raised  her 
lantern  high,  and  looked  at  the  other,  who  had 
now  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Yes  —  no 
—  was  this  Alixe  ?  Lenore  took  two  or 
three  frightened  steps  backward,  and  instantly 
Alixe  turned  toward  her. 

"  Lenore  !     Thou  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Alixe  ! "  Lenore  stared,  wondering  at  her 
self.  Surely  she  had  suffered  a  hallucination. 
Alixe  was  as  ever,  save  that  her  eyes  were  a 
little  wider,  her  skin  a  little  paler,  than  usual. 

"  What  dost  thou  here,  at  this  hour,  alone, 
Lenore  ?  Did  aught  frighten  thee  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  sleep,  and  so,  long  since,  I 
rose,  to  wander  about  till  the  noise  of  the  storm 
[248] 


THE    STORM 

S=S5S=S=sr=E=S=SSS5G=S2C 

should  fall.  I  have  sat  here  for  but  a  moment 
—  thinking.  But  thou,  Alixe,  —  whither  goest 
thou?" 

"  I  ?  I  also  could  not  sleep.  The  storm 
is  in  my  blood.  I  turned  and  tossed  and 
strove  to  lose  my  thoughts.  But  they  burn 
forever.  Alas!  I  am  seared  by  them.  My 
eyes  refuse  to  close." 

"What  are  those  thoughts  of  thine,  Alixe? 
Perchance  they  were  of  the  same  woof  as 
mine." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Lenore  !  Thou  hast  no  ancient 
memories  of  this  place." 

"  That  may  be ;  yet  my  thoughts  were  of 
this  place,  and  of  a  woman.  Tell  me,  Alixe, 
hast  thou  known  in  thy  life  one  of  the  same 
name  as  mine  own  :  a  maid  whom  —  whom 
my  lord  knew  well,  and  who  hath  gone  far 
away  ?  " 

"  Lenore  !  Mon  Dieu !  Who  told  thee  of 
her  ?  " 

"  It  matters  not.  I  know.  Prithee,  Alixe, 
talk  to  me  of  her,  an  thou  wouldst  still  the 
torture  of  my  soul !  " 

"What  shall  I  tell  thee,  madame  ?  "  Alixe 
stared  at  the  young  woman  with  slow,  ques- 
[24,9] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

tioning  surprise.  "  Knowest  thou  of  her  life 
here  among  us  ?  —  or  wouldst  hear  of  her 
death  ? " 

"  Of  all  —  of  her  life  and  death  —  tell  me 
all !  "  Lenore  drew  her  mantle  close  around 
her,  for  she  was  shivering  with  something  that 
was  not  cold.  She  kept  her  head  slightly  bent, 
so  that  Alixe  could  not  see  the  working  of  her 
face,  as  the  two  of  them  went  together  to  the 
settle  by  the  pillar. 

Lenore  sat  very  still,  listening  absently  to 
the  muffled  sound  of  wind  and  rain  and  beating 
waves,  while  her  mind  drank  in  the  narrative 
that  Alixe  poured  into  her  ears;  and  so  did 
the  one  thing  interweave  itself  with  the  other 
in  her  consciousness,  that,  in  after  time,  the 
spirit  of  the  lost  Lenore  walked  forever  in  her 
mind  amid  the  terrible  grandeur  of  a  mighty 
storm,  lightning  crowning  her  head,  her  hair 
and  garments  dripping  with  rain  and  blown 
about  by  the  increasing  wind.  An  eerie  thing 
it  was  for  these  two  young  and  tender  women, 
lightly  clad,  to  sit  at  this  midnight  hour  in  the 
gray  fastnesses  of  the  Twilight  Castle,  and, 
while  the  whirlwind  howled  without,  to  turn 
over  in  their  thoughts  the  story  of  a  young 
[250] 


THE    STORM 

5SgrT^S>fir^-g>S^-S''g'-S^ 

life  so  tragically  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  its 
happiness  and  beauty.  Alixe's  changeable 
eyes  shone  in  the  semi-darkness  with  a  phos 
phorescent  gleam,  and  her  voice  rose  and  fell 
and  trembled  with  emotion  as  she  poured  into 
Lenore's  burning  heart  the  tale  of  Gerault's 
sorrow. 

"  Five  years  agone,  when  I  was  but  a  maid 
of  twelve,  Seigneur  Gerault  was  of  the  age  of 
twenty-three.  At  that  time  this  Castle,  I  mind 
me,  was  a  merry  place  enow.  Madame 
Eleanore  had  a  great  train  of  squires  and 
demoiselles  in  those  days,  and  thy  lord  kept 
a  young  following  of  his  own  —  though  he 
held  Courtoise  ever  the  favorite.  At  that  time 
Gerault  rode  not  to  tournaments  in  Rennes, 
but  bided  at  home  with  madame,  his  mother, 
and  Laure,  and  the  young  demoiselle  Lenore 
de  Laval,  niece  to  madame,  a  maid  as  young 
as  thou  art  now.  This  maiden  had  come  to 
Crepuscule  when  she  was  but  a  little  girl,  her 
own  mother  being  dead,  and  madame  loving 
her  as  a  daughter.  Gerault's  love  for  her  was 
not  that  of  a  brother ;  yet  because  of  their 
blood-relationship,  there  was  little  talk  of  their 
wedding.  For  all  that,  they  two  were  ever 
[251] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

together  in  company,  and  alone  as  much 
as  madame  permitted.  They  hawked,  they 
hunted,  and,  above  all,  they  sailed  out  on 
the  sea.  The  Seigneur  had  a  sailing-boat, 
and  Madame  Eleanore  never  knew,  methinks, 
how  many  hours  they  spent  on  the  waters  of 
the  bay.  Child  as  I  was,  I  envied  them  their 
happiness  ;  and,  though  I  went  with  them  but 
seldom,  I  knew  always  how  long  they  were 
together  each  day  ;  and  methinks  I  under 
stood  how  precious  each  moment  seemed. 

"  On  this  day  I  am  to  tell  thee  of —  oh, 
Mother  of  God,  that  it  would  leave  my  mem 
ory  !  —  I  sat  alone  by  the  little  gate  in  the  wall 
behind  the  falconry,  weeping  because  Laure 
had  deserted  our  game  and  run  to  her  mother 
in  the  Castle.  So,  while  I  sat  there,  wailing 
like  the  little  fool  I  was,  came  the  Seigneur 
and  the  demoiselle  Lenore  out  by  the  gate  on 
their  way  over  the  moat  and  to  the  beach  by 
the  steps  that  still  lead  thither  down  the  cliff. 
The  demoiselle  paused  in  her  going  to  comfort 
me,  and  presently,  more,  methinks,  to  tease 
the  Seigneur  than  for  mine  own  sake,  insisted 
that  I  go  sailing  with  them  in  their  boat.  I 
can  remember  how  I  screamed  out  with  de- 
[252] 


THE    STORM 


light  at  the  thought ;  for  I  loved  to  sail  better 
than  I  loved  to  eat ;  and  though  Gerault 
somewhat  protested,  Lenore  had  her  way, 
and  presently  we  had  come  down  the  cliff 
and  were  on  the  beach  by  the  inlet  where  the 
boat  was  kept. 

"  'Twas  the  early  afternoon  of  an  April 
day  :  warm,  the  sun  covered  over  with  a  gray 
mist  that  was  like  smoke,  and  but  little  wind  for 
our  pleasure.  Howbeit,  as  we  put  off  into  the 
full  tide,  a  breath  caught  our  sail  and  we 
started  out  toward  an  island  near  the  coast, 
round  the  north  point  of  the  bay,  which  from 
here  thou  canst  not  see.  I  lay  down  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat,  near  to  the  mast,  and 
listened  to  the  gurgling  sound  of  the  water  as 
it  passed  underneath  the  planks,  and  later 
grew  drowsy  with  the  rocking.  I  ween  I  slept ; 
for  I  remember  naught  of  that  sail  till  we 
were  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  fog  so  thick 
that  where  I  lay  I  could  scarce  see  the  figure 
of  my  lord  sitting  in  the  stern.  There  was  no 
wind  at  all,  for  the  sail  flapped  against  the 
mast ;  and  I  was  a  little  frightened  with  the 
silence  of  everything ;  so  I  rose  and  went  to 
the  demoiselle  Lenore,  who  laid  her  hand  on 
[253] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

my  shoulder,  and  patted  me.  She  and  Sieur 
Gerault  were  not  talking  together,  for  I  think 
both  were  a  little  nervous  of  the  fog.  All  at 
once,  in  the  midst  of  the  calm,  a  streak  of  wind 
caught  us,  and  the  little  boat  heeled  over  under 
it.  Gerault  caught  at  the  tiller,  swearing  an 
oath  that  was  born  more  from  uneasiness  than 
from  anger.  Reading  his  mind,  Lenore  moved 
a  little  out  of  his  way,  and  began  to  sing.  Ah, 
that  voice  and  its  sweetness  !  I  mind  it  very 
well  —  and  also  her  chansonette.  Since  that 
day  I  have  not  heard  it  sung,  yet  the  words 
are  fresh  in  my  mind.  Dost  know  it,  ma- 
dame  ?  It  beginneth,  — 

"  f  Assez  i  a  reson  porqoi 

L'eu  doit  fame  chiere  tenir  —  ' 

"  Ah,  I  remember  it  all  so  terribly  !  While 
Lenore  sang,  there  came  yet  another  gust  of 
wind,  and  in  it  one  of  the  ropes  of  the  sail 
went  loose,  and  the  Seigneur  must  go  to  fix 
it.  I  sat  between  him  and  his  lady,  and  as 
he  jumped  up,  he  put  the  tiller  against  my 
shoulder,  and  bade  me  not  move  till  he  came 
back.  Lenore  sat  no  more  than  four  feet  from 
me,  on  that  side  of  the  boat  that  was  low  in 
[254] 


THE    STORM 


the  wind.  While  she  sang  she  had  been  play 
ing  with  a  ring  that  she  had  drawn  from  her 
finger.  Just  as  monsieur  sprang  forward  to 
the  rope,  Lenore  dropped  this  ring,  which  me- 
thinks  rolled  into  the  water.  I  know  that  she 
gave  a  cry  and  threw  herself  far  over  the  side 
and  stretched  out  her  hand  for  something. 
As  she  leaned,  I  followed  her  movement,  and 
the  tiller  slipped  its  place.  Ah,  madame  — 
madame  —  I  remember  not  all  the  horror  of 
the  next  moment !  The  boat  went  far  over 
before  a  wave.  Lenore  lost  her  hold,  and  was 
in  the  water  without  a  sound.  The  Seigneur, 
in  a  rage  at  me  for  letting  the  rudder  slip, 
leaped  back,  and  in  an  instant  righted  the  boat, 
I  screaming  and  crying,  the  while,  in  my  woe. 
I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  it  seemed  that, 
till  we  were  started  on  our  way  again,  Gerault 
never  knew  that  —  that  his  lady  was  gone. 

"  Then  what  a  scene  !  We  turned  the  boat 
into  the  wind,  the  Seigneur  saying  not  one 
word,  but  sitting  stiff  and  still  and  white  as 
death  in  the  stern.  The  path  of  the  wind  had 
made  a  long  rift  in  the  fog,  and  through  this 
we  sailed,  I  calling  till  my  voice  was  gone,  the 
Seigneur  leaning  over,  straining  his  eyes  into 
[255] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

that  fathomless  mist  that  walled  us  in  on  both 
sides.  After  that  he  drew  off  his  doublet  and 
boots,  and  would  have  leaped  into  the  waves, 
but  that  I  —  /,  madame  —  held  him  from  it. 
I  caught  him  round  the  arms  till  we  were  both 
forced  to  the  tiller  again,  and  I  cried  and  com 
manded  and  shrieked  at  him  till  I  made  him 
see  that  his  madness  would  bring  no  help.  I 
could  not  guide  the  boat  alone  in  the  storm, 
nor  could  he  have  saved  Lenore  from  the 
power  of  the  water. 

"  For  hours  and  hours  we  sailed  the  bay. 
The  wind  drove  the  fog  before  it  until  the  air 
was  clear,  and  I  think  that  the  sight  of  that 
waste  of  tumbling  seas  was  more  cruel  than 
the  veiling  mist  from  which  we  ever  looked  for 
Lenore  to  come  back  to  us.  Ah,  I  cannot 
picture  that  time  to  thee  —  or  to  myself.  At 
last,  madame,  we  went  back  to  the  Castle.  We 
left  her  there,  the  glory  of  our  Seigneur's  life, 
alone  with  the  pitiless  sea.  It  was  I  that  had 
done  it ;  that  I  knew  in  my  heart.  That  I 
have  always  known,  and  shall  never  forget. 
Yet  Gerault  never  spoke  a  word  of  blame  to 
me.  Mayhap  he  never  knew  how  it  came 
about.  For  many  months  thereafter  he  was 
[256] 


THE    STORM 


as  a  man  crazed  ;  and  since  that  time  he  hath 
not  been  the  same.  All  that  long  summer  he 
stayed  alone  in  his  room,  shut  away  from  us 
all,  seeing  only  Courtoise,  who  served  him,  and 
his  mother,  who  gave  him  what  comfort  she 
could.  Twice,  too,  he  asked  for  me,  and 
treated  me  with  such  kindness  that  it  went 
near  to  breaking  my  heart.  Ah,  then  it  was 
that  the  Castle  began  to  bear  out  its  name  ! 
It  seems  as  if  none  had  ever  really  lived  here 
since  that  time. 

"  But  Lenore,  thou  wouldst  say.  We  never 
saw  her  again;  though  'tis  said  that  many 
weeks  afterwards  a  woman's  body'  was  cast  up 
on  the  shore  near  St.  Nazaire,  and  was  burned 
there  by  the  fisher-folk,  as  is  their  custom 
with  those  dead  at  sea.  And  they  say  that 
now,  by  night,  her  voice  is  heard  to  cry  out 
along  the  shore  near  the  inlet  where  Gerault's 
boat  once  lay. 

"  Many  years  are  passed  since  these  things 
happened ;  yet  they  have  not  faded  from  my 
memory,  nor  have  they  from  that  of  my  lord. 
Up  to  the  time  of  thy  coming,  madame,  he 
mourned  for  her  always  ;  nor  did  he  abstain 
from  asking  forgiveness  of  Heaven  for  her  end." 
["I  [  257  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  Ah,  Alixe,  he  hath  not  yet  ceased  to 
mourn  for  her.  Alas !  I  cannot  fill  her  place 
for  him.  He  is  uncomforted.  How  sad, 
how  terrible  her  end,  within  the  very  sight  of 
him  she  loved  !  Tell  me,  Alixe,  was  she  very 
fair  ?  " 

"Not,  methinks,  so  fair  as  thou,  madame. 
Yet  she  was  beautiful  to  look  on,  with  her 
dark  hair  and  her  pale,  clear  skin,  and  her 
mouth  redder  than  a  rose  in  June.  Her  eyes 
were  dark  —  like  shadowy  stars.  And  her 
ways  were  gentle  —  gay  —  tender  —  anything 
to  fit  her  mood.  Ah  !  I  am  wounding  thee  !  " 

Poor  Lenore's  head  was  bent  a  little  farther 
down,  and  by  her  shoulders  her  companion 
knew  that  she  wept.  Alixe  would  have  given 
much  to  bring  some  comfort  for  the  pain 
she  had  unintentionally  roused.  But  in  the 
presence  of  the  unhappy  wife,  she  sat  uneasy 
and  abashed,  powerless  to  bring  solace  to  that 
tortured  heart. 

While  the  two  sat  there,  in  this  silence,  the 
storm,  which  had  lulled  a  little,  broke  out 
afresh  with  such  a  flash  and  roar  as  caused 
even  Alixe  to  cower  back  where  she  was. 
There  was  a  fierce  tumult  of  new  rain  and 
[258] 


THE    STORM 

^^s^^^^T^^^^^^T^^^^^^^C 

howling  wind,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  a  sudden 
great  clamoring  at  the  Castle  door,  and  the 
faint  sound  of  a  horse  neighing  outside.  Alixe 
sprang  up,  and,  thinking  only  of  giving  shelter 
to  some  storm-driven  stranger,  unbarred  the 
door.  As  it  flew  open  before  the  storm,  a 
man  was  hurled  into  the  room,  in  a  furious 
gush  of  water  ;  and  when  the  lantern-light  fell 
upon  his  haggard  face,  Lenore  gave  a  cry  that 
was  half  a  sob,  and  rushed  upon  him,  clasping 
his  arms,  — 

"  Courtoise  !  Courtoise!  How  fares  my 
lord  ?  " 

Courtoise  gazed  down  upon  her,  and  did 
not  speak.  In  his  face  was  such  a  look  of 
suffering  as  none  had  ever  seen  before  upon  it. 

"  Courtoise !  "  she  cried  again,  this  time 
with  a  new  note  in  her  voice.  "  Courtoise  !  — 
my  lord  !  —  speak  to  me  !  speak  —  how  fares 
my  lord  ? " 

But  still,  though  she  clung  to  him,  Cour 
toise  made  no  reply. 


[259] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

FROM   RENNES 


ENORE'S  two  hands  went 
up  in  an  agony  of  entreaty. 
Courtoise  maintained  his 
silence.  There  was  in  the 
great  hall  a  stillness  that  the 
rushing  of  the  storm  could 
not  affect.  Alixe  moved  back  to  the  door, 
and  barred  it  once  more  against  the  attacks  of 
the  wind.  At  the  same  time  another  figure 
appeared  on  the  stairs.  Madame  Eleanore, 
fully  dressed,  her  hair  bound  round  with  a 
metal  filet,  came  rapidly  down  and  joined  the 
little  group.  Lenore  was  as  one  groping 
through  a  mist.  She  knew,  vaguely,  when 
madame  came ;  but  it  meant  nothing  to  her. 
Now  she  repeated,  in  the  pleading  tone  of  a 
child  that  begs  for  some  sweet  withheld  from 
it  by  its  elder, — 

[260] 


FROM    RENNES 

"  Thou  bringest  a  packet  from  my  lord, 
Courtoise  ?  Sweet  Courtoise,  deliver  it  to  my 
hand.  My  lord  sendeth  me  a  letter,  is  it 
not  so?" 

A  low  cry,  inarticulate,  heart-broken,  came 
from  the  lips  of  the  esquire  ;  and  therewith 
he  fell  upon  his  knees  before  the  young 
Lenore  and  held  up  his  two  hands  as  if  to 
ward  off  from  her  the  blow  that  he  should 
deal.  "  Madame  !  "  he  said ;  and,  for  some 
reason,  Lenore  cowered  before  him. 

Then  Eleanore  came  up  to  them,  her  face 
milk-white,  her  eyes  burning ;  and,  laying  her 
hand  upon  the  young  man's  shoulder,  she  said 
softly  :  "  Speak,  Courtoise  !  Tell  us  what  is 
come  to  thy  lord.  In  pity  for  us,  delay  no 
more." 

Courtoise  looked  up  to  her,  and  saw  how 
deeply  haggard  her  face  seemed.  Then  the 
world  grew  great  and  black ;  and  out  of 
the  surrounding  darkness  came  his  voice, 
"  The  Seigneur  is  dead.  Lord  Gerault  is 
killed  of  a  spear-thrust  that  he  got  in  the 
lists  at  Rennes.  They  bear  him  homeward 
now." 

A  deep  groan,  born  of  this,  her  final  world- 
[261] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Sa£DS^S^S=^g^?gC^S^g-5>€^g<53S3S>S^^ 

wound,  came  from  Eleanore's  gray  lips.  Alixe 
gave  a  long  scream,  and  then  fell  forward  upon 
her  knees  and  began  to  mutter  senseless  words 
of  prayer.  Courtoise  huddled  himself  up  on 
the  floor,  and  let  fatigue  and  grief  strive  for 
the  mastery  over  him.  Only  Lenore  uttered  no 
sound.  She,  the  youngest  of  them  there,  and 
the  most  bereaved,  stood  perfectly  still.  One 
of  her  hands  was  pressed  hard  against  her  fore 
head  ;  and  she  looked  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  recall  some  forgotten  thing.  Presently  she 
whispered  to  herself  a  few  indistinguishable 
words,  and  a  faint  smile  hovered  round  her 
lips.  Finally,  seeing  the  piteous  plight  of 
Courtoise,  she  laid  one  hand  upon  his  lowered 
head  and  said  gently, — 

"  Courtoise,  thou  art  weary,  and  wet,  and 
spent  with  riding.  Rise,  dear  squire,  and  seek 
thy  bed,  and  rest.  'T  is  very  late  —  and 
thou  'rt  so  weary.  Go  to  thy  rest." 

Eleanore  looked  at  her,  the  frail  girl,  in 
amazement.  Then  she  came  round  and  took 
Lenore's  hand,  and  said  :  "  Thou  sayest  well ; 
't  is  very  late,  Lenore,  and  thou  art  also 
lightly  clad.  Come  thou  to  thy  bed,  and  let 
Alixe  to  hers.  Come,  my  girl." 
[262] 


FROM    RENNES 

57r?rtTn^fra>5s^g^r~pr^srgrgrga: 

Lenore  made  no  resistance,  and  went  with 
madame  toward  the  stairs;  Alixe  stared  after 
them  as  if  they  had  both  been  mad,  for  she 
had  never  known  a  blow  that  stuns  the  brain. 
Lenore  suffered  herself  to  be  led  quietly  up 
the  stairs,  and,  reaching  her  own  room,  which 
was  dark  save  for  the  light  that  came  through 
from  madame's  open  door,  she  dropped  off  her 
wide  bliault,  and  lay  down,  shivering  slightly, 
in  the  cold  bed.  She  was  numb  and  drowsy. 
Madame,  bending  over  her,  watched  and  saw 
the  eyelids  slowly  close  over  her  great  blue 
eyes,  till  they  were  fast  shut ;  and  the  young 
Lenore  slept  —  slept  as  sweetly  as  a  babe. 

Of  the  night,  however,  that  madame  spent, 
who  dares  to  speak  in  unexpressive  words  ? 
What  the  slow-passing,  dark-robed  hours 
brought  her,  who  shall  say  ?  Her  last  loss 
broke  her  spirit ;  and  she  felt  that  under 
neath  the  heavy,  all-powerful  hand  of  the 
Creator-Destroyer,  none  might  stand  upright 
and  hope  to  live.  Gerault  had  suffered, 
as  now  he  gave,  great  sorrow.  Eleanore  had 
never  felt  herself  close  to  his  heart,  as  she  had 
once  been  close  to  the  heart  of  that  daughter 
whom  she  had  sacrificed  to  an  unwilling  God. 
[  263  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF  -TWILIGHT 

But  now,  in  the  knowledge  of  his  death,  the 
memory  of  Gerault's  coldness  and  of  his 
elected  solitude  went  from  her,  and  she  re 
called  only  the  justice,  the  strength,  the  self- 
reliance  of  him.  Gradually  her  memory  drew 
her  back  through  his  manhood,  through  his 
youth  and  his  boyhood,  to  the  time  of  his 
infancy,  when  the  little,  helpless,  dark-eyed 
babe  had  come  to  bless  the  loneliness  of  her 
own  young  life.  And  with  this  memory,  at 
last,  came  tears, —  those  divine  tears  that  can 
wash  the  direst  grief  free  of  its  bitterness. 

As  the  dawn  showed  in  the  east,  and  rose 
triumphant  over  the  dying  storm,  madame 
crept  to  her  bed,  and  laid  her  weary  body 
on  the  kindly  resting-place,  and  slept. 

At  half-past  six  the  sun  lifted  above  the 
eastern  hills,  and  looked  forth  from  a  clear, 
green  sky,  over  a  land  freshly  washed,  glitter 
ing  with  dew,  and  new-colored  with  brighter 
green  and  gold  and  red  for  the  glorification 
of  the  September  day.  The  sea,  bringing 
great  breakers  in  from  the  pathless  west, 
was  spread  with  a  carpet  of  high-rolling  gold, 
designed  to  cover  all  the  new-stolen  treas 
ures  gathered  by  night  and  stored  within  its 
[264] 


FROM    RENNES 

treacherous,  malignant  depths.  But  the  world 
poured  fragrant  incense  to  the  sun,  and  the 
sun  showered  gold  on  the  sea,  and  in  this 
sacrificial  worship  Nature  expiated  her  dire 
passion  of  the  night. 

It  was  fair  daylight  when  Lenore  opened  her 
eyes  and  sat  up  in  her  bed  to  greet  the  morn 
ing.  She  was  glad  indeed  to  escape  from  the 
fetters  of  sleep,  for  her  dreams  had  been  fever 
ish  things.  In  them  she  had  wandered  abroad 
over  the  gray  battlements,  and  through  the 
grim  chambers  of  dimly  lighted  Crepuscule, 
and  had  seen  and  heard  terrible  things.  Lenore 
smiled  to  herself  at  the  thought  that  all  were 
past.  And  then,  creeping  over  her,  came  the 
black  shadow  of  reality,  of  memory.  There 
was  the  storm  —  her  sleeplessness  —  Alixe  — 
the  story  of  the  lost  Lenore  —  were  these 
dreams  ?  And  then  —  finally  —  God  !  —  the 
coming  of  Courtoise  —  and  — 

With  a  sharp  cry  Lenore  sprang  from  the 
bed,  flung  her  purple  mantle  upon  her,  and 
ran  wildly  through  the  adjoining  room  into 
that  of  madame.  Eleanore,  roused  from  her 
light  sleep  by  that  cry,  had  risen  and  met 
her  daughter  near  the  door.  Lenore  needed 
[265] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

but  one  glance  into  madame's  colorless  face. 
Then  she  knew  that  she  had  not  dreamed  in 
the  past  night.  Her  horrible  visions  were 
true. 

Physical  refreshment  brought  her  a  terrible 
power :  the  power  of  suffering.  There  could 
not  now  be  any  numb  acceptance  of  facts. 
Eleanore  herself  was  shocked  at  the  change 
that  a  few  seconds  wrought  in  the  young  face. 
Yet  still  Lenore  shed  no  tears,  made  no  exhi 
bition  of  her  grief.  Quietly,  with  the  stillness 
of  death  about  her  movements,  she  returned 
to  her  room  and  began  to  dress  herself.  Be 
fore  she  had  finished  her  toilet,  Alixe  crept  in, 
white-faced  and  red-eyed,  to  ask  if  there  were 
any  service  she  might  do.  Lenore  tremu 
lously  bade  her  wait  till  her  hair  was  bound  ; 
and  then  she  said:  "  Let  Courtoise  be  brought 
in  to  me,  here." 

"  Wilt  thou  not  first  eat  —  but  a  morsel 
of  bread  —  nay,  a  sup  of  wine?"  pleaded 
Alixe. 

Lenore  looked  at  her.  "  How  should  I  eat 
or  drink  ?  Let  Courtoise  be  brought  to  me." 

Obediently  Alixe  went  and  found  Courtoise 
loitering  about  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the 
[266] 


FROM    RENNES 


hall  below.  He  ascended  eagerly  when  Alixe 
gave  him  her  message,  and  entered  alone  into 
the  room  where  sat  Lenore. 

Through  two  long  hours  Alixe  and  the 
demoiselles  and  young  esquires,  a  stricken, 
silent  company,  huddled  together  at  the  table 
in  the  long  room,  sat  and  waited  the  coming 
of  Courtoise.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done 
in  the  Castle  save  to  wait ;  and  it  seemed 
to  them  all  that  they  would  rather  work  like 
slaves  than  sit  thus,  inert  and  silent,  and 
with  naught  to  do  but  think  of  what  had 
come  upon  Le  Crepuscule.  They  knew  that 
the  body  of  Gerault  was  on  its  way  home. 
A  henchman  had  long  since  started  off  for 
St.  Nazaire  to  acquaint  the  Bishop  with  the 
news  and  bring  him  back  to  the  Castle.  Also, 
Anselm  and  the  captain  of  the  keep  had  lifted 
the  great  stone  in  the  floor  of  the  chapel, 
that  led  into  the  vault  below.  This  was  all 
there  was  to  be  done  now,  until  the  last  home 
coming  of  their  lord. 

At  ten  o'clock    Courtoise   appeared  on  the 

threshold  of  the  long  room,  and  his  face  bore 

a  light  as  of  transfiguration.     As  he  went  in 

and  halted  near  the  doorway,  the  little  com- 

[267] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

pany  rose  reverently,  and  waited  for  him  to 
speak.  He  turned  to  Alixe,  but  it  was  a 
moment  or  two  before  he  could  get  his  voice 
and  control  it  to  speak. 

"Alixe  --  Alixe  —  Madame  Lenore  hath 
asked  for  you  —  asks  that  you  come  to  her." 

Alixe  rose  at  once,  and  the  two  went  out 
together  into  the  hall.  There,  however,  Cour- 
toise  halted,  saying,  in  a  low,  almost  reverent 
tone :  "  She  is  in  her  chamber.  I  am  to 
remain  here  below." 

Alixe  turned  her  white  face  and  her  bright 
green  eyes  upon  him  questioningly.  "  How 
doth  she  bear  herself?  Doth  she  yet  weep  ? " 
she  asked  in  a  half-whisper. 

"  She  doth  not  weep.  Ah,  God !  the 
Seigneur  married  an  angel  out  of  heaven, 
Alixe,  and  never  knew  it ;  and  now  can  never 
know  !  " 

"  He  was  our  lord,  Courtoise.  Reproach 
not  the  dead." 

Courtoise  bent  his  head  without  speaking, 
and  Alixe  went  on,  up  to  Lenore's  chamber, 
the  door  of  which  stood  half  open.  Alixe 
went  softly  in,  and  found  Lenore  sitting  alone 
by  the  window,  where  madame  had  just  left 
[268] 


FROM    RENNES 

her.  Silently  the  widowed  girl  put  out  both 
hands  to  Alixe,  and,  as  Alixe  went  over  to  her, 
the  tears  began  to  run  from  her  eyes.  It 
was  this  sight  of  tears  that  first  broke  through 
Lenore's  wonderful  self-control.  Springing  to 
her  feet,  with  a  choking,  hysterical  cry  she 
flung  both  arms  around  Alixe's  neck,  and  wailed 
out,  in  that  breathless  monotone  that  children 
sometimes  use  :  "  Alixe !  Alixe !  Why  is  it 
that  I  cannot  die  ?  O  Alixe  !  Alixe  !  Pray 
God  to  let  me  die  !  " 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Monsei- 
gneur  de  St.  Nazaire  arrived  at  the  Castle. 
The  body  of  the  fallen  knight  had  not  yet 
come.  Watchers  had  been  placed  in  every 
tower  to  catch  the  first  sight  of  the  funeral 
train  ;  but  all  day  long  they  had  strained  their 
eyes  in  vain.  At  last,  when  the  sun  was  near 
the  horizon,  and  the  golden  shadows  were  long 
over  the  land,  and  the  sky  was  haloed  with  a 
saintly  glow,  up,  out  of  the  cool  depths  of  the 
forest,  on  the  winding,  barren  road  that  rose 
toward  the  Castle  on  the  cliff,  came  a  wearily 
moving  company  of  men  and  horses.  There 
were  six  riders,  who,  with  lances  reversed,  rode 
[269] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


three  on  a  side  of  a  broad,  heavy  cart,  of  which 
the  burden  was  covered  with  a  great,  black 
cloth,  embroidered  in  one  corner  with  the 
ducal  arms  of  Brittany. 

The  drawbridge  was  already  lowered.  In 
the  courtyard  an  orderly  company  of  hench 
men  and  servants  stood  waiting  to  see  the 
funeral  car  drive  in.  The  Castle  doors  were 
open,  and  in  their  space  stood  the  Bishop, 
with  a  priest  at  his  right  hand  and,  on  his 
left,  Courtoise,  black-clothed,  and  white  and 
calm.  In  front  of  the  doorway  the  cart  halted, 
and  immediately  the  six  gentlemen  of  Rennes, 
who  had  drawn  Gerault  from  the  fatal  lists 
and  had  of  their  own  desire  brought  him 
home,  dismounted,  and,  after  reverently  salut 
ing  the  Bishop,  went  to  the  cart  and  lifted 
out  the  stretcher.  This,  its  burden  still  cov 
ered  with  the  black  cloth,  they  carried  into 
the  Castle  and  deposited  in  the  chapel  on 
the  high,  black  bier  made  ready  for  it. 

Madame  Eleanore,  Alixe,  and  the  demoi 
selles,  but  not  Lenore,  were  in  the  chapel 
waiting.  When  the  burden  of  the  litter  had 
been  placed,  and  the  black  cloth  drawn  close 
over  the  dead  body,  Eleanore,  who  till  this 
[270] 


FROM    RENNES 


time  had  been  upon  her  knees  before  the  altar, 
came  forward  to  greet  the  six  knightly  gentle 
men,  and  all  of  them,  as  they  returned  her 
sad  salute,  were  struck  with  her  impenetrable 
dignity.  Her  salutation  at  once  thanked  them, 
greeted  them,  and  dismissed  them  from  the 
chapel ;  and  indeed  they  had  no  thought  of 
staying  to  watch  this  first  meeting  of  the  living 
with  the  dead  ;  but,  returning  obeisance  to  the 
mother  of  their  comrade,  they  left  the  holy 
room  and  found  Courtoise  outside,  waiting  to 
conduct  them  to  the  refreshment  that  had  been 
prepared. 

So  was  Eleanore  left  alone  before  her  dead. 
Behind  her,  near  the  altar,  knelt  the  maidens, 
weeping  while  they  prayed.  The  tall  candles 
around  the  bier  were  yet  unlighted  ;  but 
through  one  of  the  high  windows  came  a  last 
ray  of  sunlight,  to  bar  the  mourning-cloth 
with  royal  gold. 

For  a  moment,  clasping  both  hands  before 
her,  in  her  silent  strain,  Eleanore  stood  still 
before  the  bier.  Then,  moving  forward,  she 
lifted  the  edge  of  the  covering,  and  drew  it  away 
from  the  head  and  shoulders  of  her  son. 

There  was  he,  —  Gerault.  There  was  he, 
[271  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

scarcely  whiter  or  more  still  than  she  had  seen 
him  many  times  in  life ;  yet  he  was  dead : 
transparent  and  pinched  and  ineffably  still,  and 
dead  !  The  head  was  bare  of  any  cap  or  hel 
met,  and  the  black  locks  and  beard  were 
smoothly  combed.  The  broad,  fair  brow  was 
calm  and  unwrinkled.  The  mouth,  scarce 
concealed  by  the  mustache,  was  curved  into 
an  expression  of  great  peace. 

Madame  took  the  cover  again,  and  drew  it 
slowly  down  till  the  whole  form  lay  before  her. 
His  armor  had  been  removed,  and  he  was 
clothed  in  silken  vestments  that  hid  all  trace 
of  his  wound.  The  hands  were  folded  fair 
across  his  breast ;  his  feet  were  cased  in  long 
velvet  shoes,  fur-bordered.  From  the  peace- 
fulness  of  his  attitude  it  was  difficult  to  imagine 
the  scene  by  which  he  had  met  his  end  :  the 
great  flashing  and  clashing  of  arms,  the  blare 
of  trumpets,  the  shouting  applause  of  thou 
sands  of  fair  onlookers,  gayly  clothed  ladies, 
who,  after  their  shouting,  saw  him  fall. 

Long  Eleanore  stood  there,  looking  upon 
him  as  he  lay,  untroubled  now  by  any  hu 
man  thing.  And  as  she  looked,  many  world- 
thoughts  rose  up  within  her  as  to  his  life,  his 
[272] 


FROM    RENNES 

ES=SSSS=SS=S=S=S^5!S2S: 

griefs,  and  the  manner  of  his  going.  She  had 
had  him  always  :  had  borne,  and  reared,  and 
watched,  and  loved  him  ;  and  he  had  loved  her, 
she  knew,  though  he  had  seldom  shown  it, 
and  had  lived  much  within  himself.  She 
yearned  —  ah,  how  she  yearned  !  —  to  take  him 
now  into  her  arms  again,  and  croon  over  him, 
and  soothe  him,  as  a  mother  soothes  her 
children.  Alas,  that  he  olid  not  need  it  of 
her  !  Her  breast  heaved  twice  or  thrice,  with 
deep,  suppressed  sobs.  Then  she  fell  upon 
her  knees,  and  leaned  her  forehead  over  upon 
an  edge  of  his  robe  while  she  prayed.  And  as 
she  knelt  there,  twilight  gathered  over  the  sun 
set  glow,  and  the  chapel  grew  dim  and  gray 
with  coming  darkness. 

After  a  long  while  madame  rose  and  turned 
to  Alixe,  who  stood  near,  looking  at  her  and 
weeping.  And  madame  said  gently  :  "  Alixe, 
let  her  be  summoned  —  little  Lenore — his 
wife.  She  should  be  here." 

Alixe  bowed  silently,  and  went  away  out  of 
the  room.  Eleanore  remained  in  her  place, 
and  the  demoiselles  still  knelt  under  the  cru 
cifix.  Then  came  footboys,  with  tapers,  to 
light  the  candles.  Presently  the  bier  was 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

c^<:'<rg'«r^~^-'n^^^-s--s'^gg>5y^'S1^^ 

haloed  with  yellow  flames,  and  the  marble 
altar  blazed  with  lights.  The  hour  for  the 
mass  was  near,  and  the  people  of  the  Castle, 
and  a  few  country  folk,  clothed  in  their  best, 
began  to  come  softly  into  the  chapel,  by  twos 
and  threes.  All,  after  bowing  to  the  cross  and 
pausing  for  a  few  seconds  to  look  upon 
Gerault,  passed  over  to  the  far  side  of  the 
room,  and  knelt  there,  absorbed  in  prayer. 
The  little  room  was  more  than  half  rilled, 
when  Courtoise,  pale  and  wide-eyed,  appeared 
upon  the  threshold,  and,  holding  up  his  hand, 
whispered  to  the  throng, — 

"  Madame  Lenore  is  here  !     Peace,  and  be 
still !     Madame  Lenore  comes  in  !  " 

Immediately  Lenore  walked  into  the  room, 
and  men  held  their  breath  at  sight  of  her.  She 
was  dressed  as  for  a  bridal,  in  robes  of  stiff, 
white  damask,  her  mantle  fastened  at  her  throat 
with  a  silver  pin,  and  her  silver-woven  wedding- 
veil  falling  over  her  from  the  filet  that  con 
fined  it.  White  as  death  itself  she  was,  and 
staring  straight  before  her,  seeing  nothing  of  the 
throng  of  onlookers.  For  a  moment  her  eyes 
were  blinded  by  the  blaze  of  light.  Then  she 
started  forward,  to  the  body  of  her  lord. 
[274] 


FROM    RENNES 

g-r^^WC-g^g^gr^SSSSSiS: 

When  she  entered,  her  two  hands  had  been 
tightly  clenched,  and  she  had  thought  to  re 
strain  herself  from  any  outbreak  of  grief  be 
fore  the  people.  But  the  living  were  forgotten 
now.  Here  before  her  was  the  face  that  she 
had  loved  so  wofully,  that  she  had  hungered 
for  so  unspeakably.  Here  was  he,  the  giver 
of  her  one  brief  hour  of  unutterable  happiness  ; 
the  cause  of  so  many  days  and  nights  of  trem 
ulous  woe.  Here  he  lay,  waiting  not  for  her 
nor  for  anything,  with  no  power  to  give  her 
greeting  when  she  came.  Yet  it  was  he  ;  it 
was  his  face. 

"  Gerault  —  Gerault  —  my  lord  !  "  she  whis 
pered  softly,  as  if  he  slept :  "  Gerault !  "  She 
was  beside  him,  and  had  taken  one  of  the  rigid 
hands  in  both  her  warm,  living  ones.  "  My 
lord,  my  beloved,  wilt  not  turn  thy  face  to  me? 
I  have  waited  long  for  thy  kiss.  Prithee,  give 
but  a  little  of  thy  love ;  seem  but  to  notice  me, 
and  I  will  be  well  content.  Nay,  but  thou 
surely  wilt !  Surely,  surely,  beloved,  thou  wilt 
not  pass  me  by  ! " 

She  had  been  covering  the  hand  she  held 
with  kisses,  but  now  she  put  it  from  her,  and 
looked  down  upon  the  passive  body,  her  eyes 
[275] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

wide  and  hurt,  and  her  mouth  tremulous  with 
his  repulse.  The  spectators  watched  this  piti 
able  scene  with  fascinated  awe ;  and  it  seemed 
not  to  occur  to  one  of  them  to  prevent  what 
followed.  None  there  realized  that  Lenore 
was  unbalanced  :  that  to  her,  Gerault  was  still 
alive.  She  bent  over,  and  put  her  lips  to  his. 
Then,  burned  and  tortured  by  the  unrespon- 
siveness  of  the  clay,  she  laid  herself  down  up 
on  the  bier  and  put  her  head  in  the  hollow  of 
Gerault's  neck,  where  it  had  been  wont  to  rest. 
Now,  at  last,  two  of  that  watching  company 
started  forward  to  prevent  a  continuance  of  the 
scene.  Courtoise  and  the  Bishop  went  to  her 
with  one  impulse;  took  her — monseigneur 
by  the  hands,  Courtoise  about  the  body ; 
loosened  her  clasp  upon  the  form  of  her  dead 
husband,  and  drew  her  gently  away  from  the 
bier.  She,  spent  and  shaken  with  her  grief, 
made  no  resistance,  but  lay  quietly  back  in 
their  arms,  trembling  and  weak.  Thereupon 
both  men  looked  helplessly  toward  Madame 
Eleanore,  to  know  what  should  be  done.  She, 
strained  almost  to  the  point  of  breaking,  came 
and  stood  over  the  form  of  Lenore  and  said  to 
Courtoise,  — 

[276] 


FROM    RENNES 

"  She  cannot  remain  here.  'T  is  too  terrible 
for  her.  Carry  her  up  to  her  room,  whither 
Alixe  shall  follow  her.  But  I  must  remain 
here  till  the  mass  is  said." 

Both  of  the  men  would  gladly  have  acted 
upon  this  suggestion ;  but  madame  had  not 
finished  speaking  when  Lenore  began  to  strug 
gle  in  their  arms,  crying  piteously  the  while : 

"Nay!  Let  me  stay!  In  the  name  of 
mercy,  let  me  not  be  sent  from  him.  I  will 
not  seek  again  to  disturb  his  rest.  I  will  be 
very  quiet  —  very  still.  I  will  not  even  weep. 
I  will  but  kneel  here  upon  the  stones,  and  will 
not  speak  through  all  the  mass,  so  that  you  take 
me  not  out  of  his  sight.  Methinks  he  might 
care  to  have  me  here ;  it  might  be  his  wish 
that  I  should  remain  unto  the  end.  Have 
pity,  gentle  Courtoise  !  Pity,  monseigneur  !  " 

At  once  they  granted  her  request,  and  re 
leased  her ;  for  indeed  her  plea  was  more 
than  any  of  the  three  could  well  endure.  The 
Bishop  was  beyond  speech,  and  the  tears  were 
streaming  from  Courtoise's  eyes  as  he  left 
her  side.  Lenore  kept  her  word.  She  knelt 
down  upon  the  stones,  two  or  three  feet  from 
the  bier  ;  and,  with  head  bent  low  and  hands 
[277] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


clasped  upon  her  breast,  strove  to  force  her 
thoughts  to  God  and  high  heaven.  St.  Nazaire 
at  once  began  the  mass  for  the  dead,  and  never 
had  any  man  more  reverence  done  him  or  more 
tears  shed  for  him  than  the  stern  and  silent 
Lord  of  Crepuscule,  who,  it  seemed,  had  formed 
a  light  of  life  for  Lenore  the  golden-haired. 
After  the  beginning  of  the  service,  she  was  left 
unnoticed  where  she  had  placed  herself;  and, 
as  the  minutes  passed,  her  strained  figure  settled 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  floor ;  the  candle-light 
played  more  joyously  with  her  glorious  hair  ; 
and  finally,  as  the  mass  neared  its  end,  she 
sank  quietly  down  upon  the  stones,  unconscious 
and  released  from  tears  at  last. 

A  few  moments  later,  Courtoise  and  Alixe 
bore  her  gently  up  the  great  stairs,  and  laid 
her,  in  her  white  bridal  robes,  upon  her  lonely 
bed.  It  was  thus  that  she  left  Gerault ;  thus 
that  her  youth  and  her  love  met  their  end,  and 
her  long  twilight  of  widowhood  began. 

Another  morning  dawned,  in  tender  primrose 

tints,  and  saluted  the  sea  through  a  low-clinging 

September  haze.     The  Castle  rose  at  the  usual 

hour,  and  dressed,  and  descended  to  the  morn- 

[278] 


FROM    RENNES 


ing  meal,  scarce  able  to  understand  that  there 
was  any  change  in  the  usual  quiet  existence. 
It  was  impossible,  indeed,  to  realize  that,  in 
two  little  days  of  sun  and  storm,  the  life  of 
the  Castle  had  died,  its  mainstay  had  broken, 
and  that  henceforth  it  must  exist  only  in  mem 
ories.  On  this  day  two  of  the  squires  made 
their  adieux  to  madame,  and  hied  them  forth 
to  seek  a  lord  by  whom  to  be  trained  yet 
more  thoroughly  for  knighthood  ;  and  mayhap 
to  get  themselves  a  little  more  familiar  with  its 
third  article.1  But  Courtoise,  all  heart-broken 
as  he  was,  and  Roland  de  St.  Bertaux,  and  Guy 
le  Trouve,  being  all  of  gentle  blood,  but  with 
out  other  home  to  seek,  came  to  their  lady  and 
kissed  her  hand,  and  swore  her  eternal  allegiance 
and  service.  And  the  demoiselles,  who  had, 
indeed,  no  need  of  a  lord  in  the  Castle,  renewed 
their  duty  to  their  mistress,  and  also  tried  to 
give  her  what  little  comfort  they  knew,  in  the 
shape  of  certain  of  Anselm's  Latin  texts,  and  a 
few  less  pithy  but  warmer  phrases  of  their  own 
making.  The  six  knights  that  had  brought 
Gerault  home,  rode  off  again,  sadly  bearing 

1  <<  He  shall  uphold  the  rights  of  the  weaker,  such  as  orphanse, 
damsels,  and  widows." 

[279] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

with  them  Eleanore's  brave  messages  of  loyalty 
and  thanks  to  Duke  Jean  in  Rennes.  The 
Bishop  of  St.  Nazaire  sent  his  assistant  priest 
home  ;  but  he  himself  elected  to  remain  for 
a  day  or  two,  knowing  that,  should  Lenore 
become  seriously  ill,  he  would  be  a  stay  for 
Madame  Eleanore.  Of  Eleanore  herself  there 
were  no  fears.  She  was  too  strong  to  cause 
any  one  anxiety  for  her  health.  Indeed,  it  was 
generally  thought  that  she  had  put  Gerault  too 
much  away.  How  that  may  be  is  not  certain; 
but  there  was  nothing  now  in  the  Castle  to 
speak  of  him.  The  chapel  was  empty  ;  the 
mouth  of  the  great  vault  had  closed  once 
more,  this  time  to  hide  under  its  grim  weight 
the  last  of  the  line  of  Crepuscule. 

On  the  second  day  after  the  funeral,  Eleanore, 
knowing  by  bitter  experience  how  excellent  a 
cure  for  melancholy  is  hard  work,  betook  her 
self  and  the  demoiselles  up  to  the  spinning- 
room  as  usual.  Lenore  only,  of  the  company, 
was  missing.  She,  by  madame's  own  bidding, 
still  kept  her  bed,  —  lying  there  silent,  patient, 
asking  no  attendance  from  any  one  ;  listening 
hour  by  hour  to  the  soft  sound  of  the  sea  as  it 
broke  upon  the  cliffs  far  below  her  window. 
[280] 


FROM    RENNES 

Of  what  was  in  her  heart,  what  things  she  saw 
in  her  day  dreams,  neither  Alixe  nor  madame 
sought  to  learn.  But  there  was  something  in 
her  face,  thin,  wan,  transparent  as  it  had  grown, 
that  sent  a  great  fear  to  Eleanore's  heart,  and 
caused  her  to  watch  over  Lenore  with  deep 
anxiety  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  effort  of  walk 
ing  would  break  the  last  vestige  of  strength  in 
that  frail  body. 

Through  the  first  day  of  return  to  the  old 
routine,  madame  was  fully  occupied  in  making 
a  pretence  at  cheerfulness  and  in  inducing  those 
around  her  to  hide  their  sadness.  But  after 
wards,  when  chatter  and  smiles  began  to  come 
naturally  back  to  the  young  lips,  and  the  gayety 
of  youth  to  shine  from  their  eyes  again,  she 
suddenly  relaxed  her  strain,  and  let  her  mind 
sink  into  what  depths  it  would.  How  dim 
with  misery  was  the  September  air !  Hope 
had  gone  out  of  her  life ;  and  the  thought  of 
joy  was  a  mockery.  Throughout  her  whole 
world  there  was  not  a  single  spot  of  bright 
ness  on  which  to  feast  her  tired  eyes.  Even 
imagination  had  fled,  and  there  remained  to 
her  only  a  vista  of  unending,  monotonous 
days,  the  one  so  like  the  other  that  she  should 
[281  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

soon  forget  the  passage  of  time.  And  this 
future  was  inevitable.  Le  Crepuscule  was 
here,  and  she  must  keep  to  it.  She  had  no 
other  refuge  save  a  nunnery ;  and  that  merest 
suggestion  was  terrible  to  her.  Gerault's 
widow,  the  young  Lenore,  was  left ;  yet  she 
would  be  infinitely  happier  to  go  back  to  the 
home  of  her  youth.  There  was  a  cry  of  de 
spair  in  Eleanore's  heart  at  this  realization, 
and  she  fought  with  herself  for  a  long  time 
before  finally  she  was  wrought  to  the  point  of 
going  to  Lenore  and  counselling  her  return  to 
her  father's  roof.  Yet  Eleanore  brought  her 
self  to  this ;  for  she  felt  that  this  last  sacri 
fice  was  one  of  duty  :  that  she  had  no  right 
forever  to  shut  -the  youth  and  beauty  of 
the  young  life  into  the  grim  shadows  of  Le 
Crepuscule. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  of  her  new 
struggle  Eleanore  went,  with  woe  in  her  heart, 
to  the  door  of  Lenore's  room.  The  apartment 
was  flooded  with  the  light  of  sunset,  so  that 
Lenore,  lying  in  the  very  midst  of  it,  seemed 
to  be  resting  in  a  sea  of  glowing  gold.  When 
Eleanore  entered,  the  young  girl  turned,  with 
a  little  smile  of  pleasure,  and  said, — 
[282] 


FROM    RENNES 


"  Thou  'rt  very  kind  to  come  to  me  here 
while  I  lie  thus  in  idlesse.  Indeed,  I  see  not 
how  thou  shouldst  bear  with  me  that  I  do 
nothing  when  all  the  Castle  is  at  work." 

"  Bear  with  thee  !  My  child,  thou  hast 
given  us  nothing  to  bear.  Thou  hast  rather 
brought  into  the  Castle  a  light  that  will  burn 
always  in  our  hearts.  And,  in  thy  great  grief, 
thou  shalt  get  what  comfort  may  be  for  thee 
from  whatever  thou  canst  find.  Now,  indeed, 
dear  child,  I  am  come  to  make  a  pleading 
that  breaketh  my  heart ;  yet  we  have  done  so 
much  wrong  to  thy  fair  young  life,  that  it  is 
not  in  me  further  to  blight  it."  She  went  over 
to  the  bedside,  and  Lenore,  sitting  up,  took 
one  of  the  strong  white  hands  in  her  own  deli 
cate  fingers  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  Then, 
while  Eleanore  bent  close  over  her,  she  said 
softly, — 

"What  is  this  thing  that  pains  thee  ?  Surely 
thou  'It  not  think  that  I  could  do  aught  to 
hurt  thee  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  this  will  bring  happiness  back  into 
thy  heart." 

"  Happiness ! " 

"  Yes,  Lenore,  happiness.  That  word 
[283] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

sounds  strange  in  thine  ears  from  me ;  yet 
listen  while  I  speak.  Gerault,  my  dead  son, 
brought  thee  out  of  a  life  of  sunshine  and 
gayety  and  fair  youth  into  this  grim  Twilight 
Castle ;  and  now  thou  hast  entered,  with  all 
of  us,  from  twilight  into  blackest  night.  But 
thou  hast  in  thee  what  is  lacking  in  me,  and 
in  those  that  dwell  here  as  part  of  our  race ; 
thou  'rt  young,  and  thou  hast  had  a  joyous 
youth.  Thou  knowest  what  I  long  since  for 
got  :  that,  in  this  world,  there  is  a  country  of 
happiness.  Now  it  is  I,  Gerault's  mother,  that 
bids  thee  leave  these  shades  of  ours  and  return 
to  thy  real  home.  I  bid  thee  go  back  again 
into  thy  youth,  to  thy  father's  house,  whither, 
if  thou  wilt,  I  will  myself  in  all  love  convey 
thee ;  and  I  will  tell  thy  father  how  thou 
hast  been  unto  me  all  that  —  more  than  —  a 
daughter  should  be ;  that  I  love  thee  as  one 
of  my  own  blood ;  that  I  am  sore  to  give  thee 
up-" 

"  Madame  !  Madame  Eleanore  !  Thou  must 
not  give  me  up  !  Surely  thou  wilt  not !  " 
Lenore  turned  a  quivering  face  up  to  the 
other;  and  madame  read  her  expression  with 
deep  amazement. 

[284] 


FROM    RENNES 

"  Give  thee  up  !  Do  I  not  tell  thee  that  at 
the  thought  my  heart  is  like  to  break  ?  Nay, 
thou  'rt  my  daughter  always  ;  and  when  thou 
wilt,  this  is  thy  home.  Yet  for  the  sake  of 
thy  youth  —  " 

"  Madame  —  "  Lenore  sat  up  straighter,  and 
looked  suddenly  off  to  the  windows  of  her 
room,  her  face  by  turns  gone  deathly  white  and 
rosy  red  :  "  madame,  this  Twilight  Castle  is 
my  double  home.  Here  dwelt  Gerault,  my 
beloved  lord,  and  —  and  here  shall  dwell  his 
child  —  the  child  that  is  to  be  born  to  me  — 
the  new  Lord  of  Le  Crepuscule." 

"  Lenore  !  —  Lenore  !  " 

"  My  mother  !  " 

Then,  as  the  sunset  died  from  the  distant 
west,  these  two  women,  united  as  never  before, 
sat  together  upon  Gerault's  bed,  clasping  each 
other  close  and  mingling  their  tears  and  their 
laughter  in  a  joy  that  neither  had  thought  to 
know  again. 


[285] 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

THE   WANDERER 


j?HE  utterly  unexpected  rev 
elation  that  Lenore  had 
made  to  madame  drew  the 
two  women  into  a  tender  in 
timacy  that  brought  a  holy 
joy  to  both  of  them.  That 
most  beautiful,  most  priceless  flowering  of 
Lenore's  life  gave  to  her  nature  an  added 
sweetness,  and  to  her  soul  a  new  depth  that 
rendered  her  incomparably  beautiful  in  the 
eyes  of  every  one  around  her.  The  secret 
remained  a  secret  between  her  and  her  new- 
made  mother,  and  for  this  reason  the  happiness 
of  the  two  was  as  inexplicable  as  it  was  joy 
ous  for  the  rest  of  the  Castle.  Alixe,  standing 
jealously  without  the  gate  of  this  golden  cita 
del,  into  which  she  had  frequent  glimpses, 
wondered  at  its  brightness  as  much  as  she 
[286] 


THE    WANDERER 

wondered  at  its  existence  at  all.  Day  by  day 
Lenore  grew  beautiful,  and  day  by  day  the 
look  of  content  upon  her  face  became  more 
marked,  until  it  was  marvelled  at  how  she  had 
forgotten  her  bereavement.  And  Eleanore 
—  Madame  Eleanore  —  found  herself  growing 
young  again  in  the  youth  of  Gerault's  bride ; 
and  in  her  love  for  the  beautiful,  tranquil  girl 
she  learned  a  lesson  in  patience  that  fifty  years 
of  trial  and  sorrow  had  never  brought  her. 

When  Lenore  finally  rose  from  her  bed  she 
did  not  return  to  the  mornings  in  the  spinning- 
room  ;  and,  since  madame  must  perforce  be 
there  to  oversee  the  work,  Alixe  took  her 
frame  or  her  wheel  to  Lenore's  chamber,  and 
sat  there  through  the  morning  hours.  Save 
for  the  fact  that  Alixe  could  not  be  addressed 
on  the  subject  nearest  her  heart,  Lenore  prob 
ably  enjoyed  these  periods  of  the  younger 
woman's  company  quite  as  much  as  those 
graver  times  with  madame.  Both  of  them 
were  young,  and  Alixe,  having  a  nature  the 
individuality  of  which  nothing  could  suppress, 
knew  more  of  the  gayeties  of  youth  than 
one  could  have  thought  possible,  considering 
her  opportunities.  This  jumped  well  with 
[287] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

eS2£>S5«2sSS— SSS=52S=SS2S^SS=£a£ifiSSS£5S=^^ 

Lenore's  disposition,  for  her  own  sunny  nature 
would  have  shone  through  any  cloud-thick 
ness,  provided  there  was  some  one  to  catch 
the  beam  and  reflect  it  back  to  her.  The  two 
talked  on  every  conceivable  subject,  but  gener 
ally  reverted  to  one  common  interest  before 
many  hours  had  gone.  This  was  Nature  :  of 
which  Lenore  had  been  vaguely,  but  none  the 
less  passionately  fond ;  and  of  which  Alixe, 
in  her  lonely  life,  had  made  a  beautiful  and 
minute  study.  The  two  of  them  together 
watched  the  death  of  the  summer,  and  saw 
autumn  weave  its  full  woof,  from  the  rich 
colors  of  golden  harvest  and  purple  vine 
to  the  melancholy  brown  and  gray  of  dead 
moorland  and  leafless  branch.  And  when  the 
dreariness  of  November  came  upon  the  land, 
there  remained,  to  their  keen  eyes,  the  sea  — 
the  sea  that  is  never  twice  the  same  —  the  sea 
whose  beauties  cannot  die. 

This  sea,  which  Lenore  had  never  looked 
on  till  she  came  a  bride  to  Crepuscule,  held 
for  her  a  deep  fascination.  She  watched  it 
as  an  astronomer  watches  his  stars.  And  its 
vasty,  changing  surface  came  to  exercise  a 
peculiar  influence  over  her  quiet  life.  The 


THE    WANDERER 

>^*^>^'^*L^^ig^E^!g^^>g^r'<r^ 

night  of  the  great  storm  brought  it  into 
double  conjunction  with  the  bitterest  grief  in 
her  life ;  and,  with  the  knowledge  of  its  cruel 
power,  awe  was  added  to  her  interest  and 
her  admiration.  She  and  Alixe  were  accus 
tomed  to  talk  daily  of  the  lost  Lenore,  Lenore 
herself  always  introducing  the  topic  with  irre 
sistible  eagerness,  and  Alixe  answering  her 
innumerable  questions  with  an  interest  born 
of  curiosity  regarding  the  young  widow's 
motive.  In  the  presence  of  Alixe,  Lenore 
never  betrayed  the  tiniest  tremor  of  sensitive 
ness  ;  and  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
Alixe  to  surmise  how  keen  was  the  secret 
bitterness  that  lay  hidden  in  her  heart.  What 
suffering  it  brought  she  endured  alone,  by 
night,  and  indeed  she  kept  herself  for  the 
most  part  well  shielded  from  it. 

From  the  first  night  after  Gerault's  burial, 
Lenore  had  insisted  upon  sleeping  alone.  To 
every  suggestion  of  company  she  replied  that 
solitude  was  precious  to  her,  and  that  she  could 
not  sleep  with  another  in  the  room.  Eleanore 
understood  her  feeling,  and,  while  she  left 
an  easy  access  from  her  room  to  Lenore's, 
never  once  ventured  to  enter  Lenore's  cham- 
-  [  19  1  [  289  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

her  after  nightfall.  For  this,  indeed,  the  young 
woman  was  grateful,  not  because  of  any  joy 
she  found  in  being  alone  in  the  darkness,  but 
because,  after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  she  felt 
that  her  veil  of  appearances  had  fallen,  and 
that  she  might  let  her  mind  take  what  temper 
it  would.  It  was  by  night  that  she  knew  the 
terrible  yearning  for  the  dead  that  all  women 
have  in  time,  and  from  which  they  suffer  keen 
est  agony.  It  was  by  night  that  she  pictured 
Gerault  not  as  he  had  been,  but  as  she  had 
wished  him  to  be  toward  her ;  and  gradually 
Gerault  dead  came  to  be  vested  with  every 
perfect  quality,  till  her  loss  became  endurable 
to  her  through  the  hours  of  her  dreaming. 
By  night,  also,  her  childhood  returned  to 
her;  and  she  recalled  and  gently  regretted  all 
the  simple  pleasures  she  had  known,  the  rides 
and  games  and  caroles  that  she  had  been  wont 
to  indulge  in,  in  her  father's  house.  Some 
times,  too,  in  hours  of  distorted  vision,  she 
came  to  feel  that  her  great  blessing  was  rather 
a  burden ;  and  she  would  weep  at  the  thought 
of  the  little  thing  that  must  be  born  to  the 
interminable  shadows  of  this  grim  Castle, 
and  felt  that  she  alone  would  be  responsible 
[  290  ] 


THE    WANDERER 

^g?^r^ST'm^i^s^s^^T^T^asasaga£a£a5BS 

for  the  sadness  of  the  young  life.  Yet  there 
might  be  fair  things  devised  for  him.  It 
could  not  be  but  a.  boy,  —  her  child ;  and 
in  his  early  youth  she  planned  that  he  should 
ride  to  some  distant,  gay  chateau,  to  be  es 
quired  to  a  gallant  knight;  and  in  time  he 
should  come  riding  home  to  her,  himself 
golden-spurred  ;  and  then,  later,  he  should 
bring  a  lady  to  the  Castle  whom  he  should 
love  as  a  man  loves  once;  and  the  two  of 
them  would  bring  the  light  of  the  sun  to 
Crepuscule,  and  banish  its  shadows  forever 
away.  So  dreamed  Lenore  for  this  unborn 
babe  of  hers. 

And  then  again,  sometimes,  by  night,  she 
would  leave  her  bed  and  sit  for  hours  together 
at  that  window  where,  long  ago,  Gerault  had 
knelt  in  the  hour  of  his  passion.  And  Lenore 
would  watch  the  quiet  moon  sail  serenely 
through  the  sky,  till  it  sank,  at  early  dawn, 
under  the  other  sea.  And  this  vision  of  the 
setting  moon  never  failed  to  bring  peace  to 
her  heart.  Sometimes,  after  Gerault's  exam 
ple,  but  not  in  his  tone,  she  would  call  down 
from  her  height  upon  the  spirit  of  the  lost 
Lenore  that  was  supposed  to  walk  the  rocky 
[  291  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


shore  at  the  base  of  the  Castle  cliff.  But  no 
answering  cry  ever  reached  her  ears,  and  this 
was  well ;  for  what  such  a  thing  would  have 
brought  to  her  already  morbid  mind,  it  were 
sad  to  surmise.  Nevertheless,  in  the  nights 
thus  spent,  this  gentle  ghost  came  to  have  a 
personality  for  her,  in  which  she  rather  re 
joiced,  for  she  felt  that  here  must  be  some 
one  in  whom  she  could  expect  understanding 
of  her  secret  grief.  Lenore  at  night,  living 
with  the  creatures  of  her  fancy,  was  a  strange 
little  being,  no  more  resembling  the  Lenore  of 
daylight  than  a  gnome  resembles  some  bright 
fairy.  And  so  well  did  she  hide  her  midnight 
moods  that  no  one  in  the  Castle  ever  so  much 
as  suspected  them. 

It  was  not  till  the  middle  of  November  that 
Alixe  learned  of  the  hope  of  Crepuscule ;  but 
when  she  did  know,  her  tenderness  for  Lenore 
became  something  beautiful  to  see,  and  she 
partook  both  of  Eleanore's  deep  joy  and  of 
Lenore's  quiet  content.  Three  or  four  days 
after  the  knowledge  had  come  to  her,  Alixe 
was  pacing  up  and  down  the  terrace  in  front 
of  the  Castle,  side  by  side  with  Lenore.  It 
was  a  blustering,  chilly  day,  and  both  young 
[292] 


THE    WANDERER 

women  drew  their  heavy  mantles  close  around 
them  as  they  watched  the  great  flocks  of 
gulls  wheel  and  dip  to  the  sea,  looking  like 
flurries  of  snowflakes  against  the  sombre  back 
ground  of  the  sky.  Far  out  in  the  bay  one  or 
two  of  the  crude  fishing-boats  from  St.  Nazaire 
were  beating  their  way  southward  toward  their 
harbor,  and  then  Lenore  watched  with  eyes 
that  dilated  more  and  more  with  interest  and 
desire. 

"  Alixe,"    she   said   suddenly,  "  canst  thou 
sail  a  boat  ?  " 

"  Why  dost  thou  ask  ?  " 
"  Certes,  for  that  I  would  know." 
Alixe  laughed.     "  'T  is  a  reason,"  she  said. 
" Tell  me,  Alixe!     Make  me  answer  !  " 
"  Knowest  thou  not  that,  after  the  drown 
ing  of  the  demoiselle  Lenore,  it  was  forbidden 
any  one  in  Crepuscule  to  put  out  upon  the  sea 
in  any  boat,  though  he  might  be  able  to  walk 
the  water  like  Our  Lord  ?  " 

"Hush,    Alixe!     But    yet — thou 'st    not 
replied  to  me." 

"  Well,  then,  if  thou  wouldst  know,  I  can 
sail  a  boat,  and  withal  skilfully.     In  the  olden 
days,  Laure  —  't  was  Gerault's  sister  —  and  I 
[293] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

have  gone  out  in  secret  an  hundred  times  in  a 
fisherman's  boat  anchored  a  mile  down  the  shore, 
in  front  of  some  of  the  peasants'  huts.  Laure 
and  I  paid  the  fisherman  money  to  let  us  take 
the  boat;  for  she  loved  it  as  well  as  I.  Indeed, 
I  have  been  lonely  for  it  since  her  going." 

"  Ah  !  Since  her  going  thou  'st  not  known 
the  sea  ?  " 

"  Not  often.  Alone,  with  a  heavy  boat, 
there  is  danger." 

"  Alixe,  take  me  with  thee  sometime ! 
Soon !  To-day  !  My  soul  is  athirst  to  feel 
the  tremor  of  the  boiling  waves  ! " 

"  Madame  !  "  murmured  Alixe,  not  relishing 
what  she  considered  an  ill-advised  jest. 

"  Nay !  Look  not  like  that  upon  me  !  I 
would  truly  go.  Can  we  not  set  forth  ? 
There  is  yet  time  ere  dark." 

From  sheer  nervousness  Alixe  laughed. 
Then  she  said  solemnly  :  "  Madame  Lenore, 
right  willingly,  hadst  thou  need  of  it,  I  would 
yield  up  my  life  to  you  ;  but  venture  forth 
with  you  upon  those  waters  will  I  not ;  nor 
thou  nor  any  other  that  were  not  mad,  would 
ask  it." 

Lenore  frowned  at  these  words,  but  she 
[294] 


THE    WANDERER 


said  nothing  more,  either  on  that  subject  or 
another ;  and  presently  the  two  went  back 
into  the  Castle.  But  a  strange  desire  had 
been  born  in  Lenore,  and  she  brooded  upon 
it  continually.  Day  by  day  she  hungered  for 
the  sea  ;  and,  though  she  did  not  again  suggest 
her  wish,  there  were  times  when  the  roar  of 
the  waves  on  the  cliffs,  and  the  cold  puffs  of 
air  strong  with  the  odor  of  the  salt  tide,  came 
near  unbalancing  her  mind,  and  drove  uncanny 
thoughts  of  watery  deaths  through  her  heart. 
But  through  that  long  winter  she  betrayed 
only  occasional  evidences  of  the  effect  that  ill 
ness,  loneliness,  and  long  brooding  were  having 
upon  her  mind ;  and  perhaps  it  was  only  the 
dread  of  betrayal  that  in  the  end  saved  her 
from  actual  insanity. 

December  came  in  and  advanced  in  the  midst 
of  arctic  gales  and  continually  swirling  snow,  till 
Brittany  was  wrapped  deep  under  a  pure,  fleecy 
blanket.  It  was  the  season  of  warmth  and  idle 
ness  indoors,  when  the  poorest  peasant  got  out 
his  chestnut-bag,  and  merrily  roasted  this  staple 
article  of  his  diet  before  the  fire  by  night.  The 
Christmas  spirit  was  on  all  men ;  and  this  in 
Brittany  was  tempered  and  tinctured  with  the 
[295] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


quaintest  fairy-lore  relating  to  the  season,  and 
as  real  to  every  Breton  as  the  story  of  their 
Christ.  The  Christmas  mass  was  no  more  de 
voutly  enjoyed  than  was  the  great  feast,  held  a 
week  later,  on  the  night  known  throughout 
Brittany  not  as  the  New  Year,  but  as  St. 
Sylvester's  Eve,  when  all  elfdom  was  abroad 
to  guard  the  treasures  left  uncovered  by  the 
thirsty  dolmens.  And  this,  and  an  infinite 
number  of  other  tales,  of  witch  and  gnome, 
sprite  and  fay,  sleeping  princess  and  hero- 
king,  of  Viviane  and  her  wondrous  forest  of 
Broecilande,  were  told  anew,  each  year,  be 
hind  locked  doors,  before  the  crackling  fires 
that  burned  from  dusk  to  enchanted  mid 
night. 

To  Lenore,  the  holy  week  from  Christmas 
to  New  Year's  was  replete  with  interest ;  for 
in  her  own  home,  near  Rennes,  she  had  known 
nothing  like  it.  Christmas  morning  saw  all 
the  peasantry  of  the  estates  of  Crepuscule  come 
to  the  Castle  for  mass ;  after  which  there  was  a 
great  distribution  of  alms. 

From  Christmas  Day,  throughout  that  week, 
according  to  ecclesiastic  law,  the  Castle  draw 
bridge  was  never  raised ;  no  watchers  were 
[296] 


THE    WANDERER 

!g^^7yE7>sr?<S^rr^r^^-<^>-35T^ 

posted  on  the  battlements,  and  monk  and 
knight,  outlaw  and  criminal,  high  lord  and 
lady,  found  welcome  and  food  and  shelter 
within  the  great  gray  walls.  This  open  hos 
pitality  was  made  safe  by  the  fact  that,  dur 
ing  this  time,  no  matter  what  war  might  be 
in  progress,  or  what  family  feud  in  height, 
no  man  was  allowed  to  lift  a  hand  against 
his  neighbor,  and  the  knight  that  dared  to  use 
his  sword  during  those  seven  days  was  branded 
caitiff  throughout  his  life.  This  law  pre 
vailed  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
France ;  but  its  observance  belonged  more 
peculiarly  to  the  far  coast  regions,  where  - 
towns  were  scarce,  and  feudal  fortresses  of 
fered  the  only  hope  of  shelter  to  the  travel 
ler.  And  during  this  week  there  was  scarcely 
an  hour  in  the  day  that  did  not  see  its  wan 
derer,  of  whatever  degree,  appealing  for  safe 
housing  from  the  bitter  cold. 

The  week  was  the  merriest  and  the  busiest 
that  Lenore  had  known  since  coming  to  the 
Castle ;  and  the  arrival  of  the  Bishop  of  St. 
Nazaire,  on  the  day  before  New  Year's,  brought 
all  Le  Crepuscule  to  the  highest  state  of  satis 
faction.  For  many  years  it  had  been  mon- 
[C2W] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

y-"g-g-€r>g''^:^'£:^:v^5^^ 

seigneur's  custom  to  spend  St.  Sylvester's  Day 
in  the  Castle,  —  formerly  as  the  guest  of  the  old 
Seigneur,  latterly  as  that  of  Madame  Eleanore  ; 
and  though  the  Twilight  Castle  always  de 
lighted  to  honor  his  coming,  on  such  occasions 
it  was  a  double  pleasure  ;  for  upon  this  one  day 
he  carried  with  him  a  spirit  of  bonhomie,  of  gen 
eral,  rollicking  gayety,  that  roused  every  one 
to  the  same  pitch  of  happiness,  and  made  the 
Saint's  feast  what  it  was. 

Since  the  last  home-coming  of  Gerault,  St. 
Nazaire  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  at  the 
Castle,  had  played  many  a  well-fought  game 
of  chess  with  Madame  Eleanore,  and  had 
exerted  himself  to  lift  little  Lenore,  for  whom 
he  entertained  almost  a  veneration,  out  of  her 
quiet  melancholy.  None  in  the  Castle,  from 
Alixe  to  the  scullions,  but  would  have  done 
him  any  service  ;  and  his  arrival  assured  the 
feast  of  something  of  its  one-time  merriment. 

On  this  great  day  the  time  for  midday  meat 
was  set  forward  two  hours,  it  being  just  one 
o'clock  when  the  company  sat  down  at  the  im 
mense  horseshoe  table,  that  nearly  encircled 
the  great  hall ;  for  the  ordinary  Castle  retinue 
was  increased  by  a  rabble  of  peasants,  and  a 
[298] 


THE    WANDERER 

dozen  or  more  of  travellers  that  had  claimed 
their  privilege  of  hospitality. 

As  Madame  Eleanore,  handed  by  the  Bishop, 
took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the 
band  of  musicians  in  the  stone  gallery  over 
head  sent  out  a  noisy  blast  of  trumpets,  and 
everybody  sought  a  place.  Beside  madame, 
supported  by  Courtoise,  came  Lenore ;  and 
again  by  her  were  Alixe,  with  Anselm  the 
steward.  When  these  were  all  standing  be 
hind  their  tabourets,  monseigneur  repeated  the 
grace,  in  Latin.  Immediately  upon  the  amen, 
the  trumpets  rang  out  again,  and  there  was  a 
great  rustling  as  everybody  sat  down  and,  in 
the  same  breath,  began  to  talk.  After  a  wait  of 
not  less  than  ten  seconds,  there  appeared  four 
pages,  bearing  high  in  their  hands  four  huge 
platters,  on  each  of  which  reposed  a  stuffed 
boar's  head,  steaming  fragrantly.  Two  more 
boys  followed  these  first,  carrying  immense 
baskets  of  bread,  —  white  to  go  above  the  salt, 
black  for  those  below.  Then  came  Grichot, 
the  cellarer,  rolling  into  the  room  a  cask  of 
beer,  which  was  set  up  in  the  space  between 
the  two  ends  of  the  curved  table,  and  tapped. 
Instantly  this  was  surrounded  by  a  throng  of 
[299] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

struggling  henchmen,  friars,  and  peasants,  each 
with  his  horn  in  his  hand,  eager  to  be  among 
the  first  to  drink  allegiance  to  their  lady. 
Madame  and  her  little  party  in  the  centre  of 
the  table  were  served  with  wine  of  every 
description  known  to  the  north ;  besides  mead 
or  punches  for  whosoever  should  call  for 
them. 

Lenore  was  seated  between  Courtoise  and 
monseigneur ;  and  for  her 'alone  of  all  the 
company,  apparently,  the  feast  held  less  of 
merriment  than  of  sadness.  When  every  one 
was  seated,  and  the  clatter  of  tongues  had  be 
gun,  she  looked  about  her,  vaguely  wondering 
how  many  times  she  should,  by  this  feast, 
measure  a  year  passed  in  the  grim  Castle. 
Looking  along  the  table  either  way,  at  the 
double  rows  of  men  and  women,  Lenore  saw 
every  mouth  working  greedily  upon  food 
already  served,  and  every  hand  outstretched 
for  more,  as  rapidly  as  the  various  dishes 
could  be  brought  in.  She  saw  burly  men, 
roaring  with  the  laughter  of  animal  satisfaction, 
drinking  down  flagon  after  flagon  of  bitter 
beer.  She  caught  echoes  and  fragments  of 
coarse  jokes  and  coarser  suggestions ;  and  her 
[300] 


THE    WANDERER 

delicate  nature  revolted  at  the  scene.  She 
turned  to  look  toward  the  mistress  of  the 
Castle,  wondering  how  madame,  who  was  of 
a  fibre  as  fine  as  her  own,  could  endure  such 
sights  and  sounds.  Eleanore  sat  calmly  listen 
ing  to  monseigneur,  her  eyes  lifted  a  little 
above  the  level  of  the  scene,  her  lips  smiling, 
her  air  pleasantly  animated,  though  she  was 
scarcely  eating,  and  only  a  cup  of  milk  stood 
before  her  place.  As  for  the  Bishop,  he  was 
unfeignedly  enjoying  himself.  A  generous 
portion  of  roast  peacock  was  on  his  plate,  and 
a  bottle  of  red  wine  stood  close  at  his  elbow. 
His  wit  was  at  its  best,  and  he  was  entertain 
ing  all  his  immediate  neighborhood  with  such 
stories  and  reminiscences  as  he  alone  could  re 
late.  Lenore  found  relief  in  the  sight  of  him 
and  madame,  and,  pulling  herself  together, 
turned  to  the  young  squire  on  her  right  hand, 
and  began  to  talk  to  him  gently.  Roland 
listened  to  her  with  the  reverent  adoration 
entertained  for  her  by  every  man  about  the 
Castle ;  but  his  replies  were  a  little  inadequate, 
and  presently  Lenore  was  again  sitting  silent, 
her  burning  eyes  staring  straight  in  front  of 
her,  her  white  face,  framed  in  its  shining  hair, 
[301  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

looking  very  set,  her  white  robes  gleaming 
frostily  in  the  candle-light,  her  whole  bearing 
stiffly  unapproachable.  She  was  nervous  and 
uneasy,  and  she  longed  intensely  to  escape  to 
her  own  quiet  room.  But  there  was  madame 
talking  serenely  on,  apparently  unconscious  of 
the  gluttony  around  her ;  there  was  Alixe  the 
Scornful,  merrily  jesting  with  Anselm,  who 
had  forgotten  his  frowns  and  his  Latin  to 
gether.  Here  was  a  great  company  of  varied 
people,  variously  making  merry,  among  whom 
there  was  not  one  that  could  have  understood 
or  excused  her  displeasure  with  the  scene. 
Therefore  she  was  fain  to  sit  on,  disconsolate, 
enduring  as  best  she  might  her  weariness  and 
her  contempt. 

"  En  passant !  "  cried  the  Bishop,  presently, 
"  where  is  David  le  petit  ?  Is  the  dwarf  lying 
sick  ?  " 

"Why,  indeed,  I  do  not  know,"  answered 
Eleanore,  looking  around  her.  "  David  !  Is 
David  not  among  us  ? "  she  cried. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  commotion  at 

one  end  of  the  room,  and  presently  the  table 

began  to  shake.     Dishes  and  flagons  clattered 

together,  and  a  little  ripple  of  laughter  rose  and 

[302] 


THE    WANDERER 


flowed  along  from  mouth  to  mouth,  following 
the  progress  of  David  himself,  who  was  dart 
ing  rapidly  down  the  table,  picking  his  way 
easily  between  clumps  of  holly  and  tall  candles, 
and  dishes  and  plates  and  flagons,  as  he  moved 
around  toward  Madame  Eleanore  and  her 
little  party.  His  costume  added  materially  to 
the  effect  of  his  appearance,  for  he  was  dressed 
like  an  elf,  in  scarlet  hose,  pointed  brown  shoes, 
tight  jerkin  of  brown  slashed  with  red,  and 
peaked,  parti-colored  cap.  In  this  garb  his  tiny 
figure  showed  off  straight  and  slender,  and  his 
ruddy  face  and  glittering  eyes  gave  him  proper 
animation  for  the  role  he  had  chosen  to  play. 

Flying  down  the  table  till  he  came  to  a  halt  in 
front  of  madame  and  the  Bishop,  he  jerked  the 
cap  from  his  head,  whirled  lightly  round  on  his 
toes,  twice  or  thrice,  and  then,  with  a  quaint 
gesture  of  introduction,  he  sang,  in  a  sing-song 
tone,  these  verses  :  — 

"From  elf-land  I  — 
Gnome  or  troll  — 
Leaped  from  the  cave 
Whence  dolmens  roll 
Down  from  on  high 
To  the  tumbling  wave  ! 
[303  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

r-sNgg-s5S3E^S!io-S^aaJsasss5s^>jv'Sa:'v  •srsracas^aT-?r-erg^?fr=^?F?'srss 

"  In  darkness  I  live  ; 
In  darkness  I  love. 
Yet  there  's  one  thing 
To  mortals  I  give. 
From  treasure- trove 
Jewels  I  bring  !  " 

With  the  last  words  he  drew,  from  a  fat 
pouch  at  his  side,  a  handful  of  bright  bits 
of  quartz-crystal,  and,  tossing  them  high  in 
the  air,  let  them  fall  over  him  and  down  upon 
the  table  in  a  glittering  shower.  There  was 
a  quick  scramble  for  them  ;  and  then,  with  an 
uncanny  laugh,  David  pirouetted  down  the 
table,  backward,  guiding  himself  miraculously 
among  the  articles  that  loaded  the  board,  fling 
ing  about  him,  at  every  other  step,  more  of  his 
"jewels,"  and  now  and  then  singing  more  ex 
temporaneous  verses  concerning  his  mysterious 
country.  All  the  table  paused  in  its  eating 
and  drinking  to  watch  him,  for,  when  he 
chose,  he  was  a  remarkably  clever  and  magnetic 
actor.  To-day  he  was  making  an  unusual  effort, 
and  presently  even  Lenore  leaned  forward  a 
little  to  catch  his  words ;  and,  in  a  swift  glance, 
he  perceived  that  some  color  had  come  into 
her  cheeks,  and  a  faint  light  into  her  eyes. 
[304] 


THE    WANDERER 

It  made  a  pleasant  interlude  in  the  feasting; 
and  when  at  length  the  little  man,  with  a  hop 
and  a  spring,  left  the  table,  and  came  round 
to  the  place  where  he  was  accustomed  to  sit, 
he  was  followed  by  a  burst  of  enthusiastic 
applause. 

The  gayety  that  he  had  excited  by  his 
rhymes  and  his  pebble  shower  did  not  die 
away  for  some  time.  By  now,  however,  the 
eating  was  at  an  end,  and  a  lighter  tone  of 
conversation  spread  through  the  room,  as  the 
footboys  brought  in  two  extra  casks  of  beer 
and  some  dozens  of  bottles  of  red  wine.  This 
was  the  wished-for  stage  of  the  day's  entertain 
ment,  and  if  there  was  any  one  present  that 
should  be  unminded  for  what  was  to  come, 
this  was  the  signal  for  departure.  Madame 
Lenore  was  the  only  one  in  the  room  to  go  ; 
but  she  rose  the  moment  that  the  table  had 
been  cleared  of  food,  and,  with  a  slight  bow 
to  madame  and  monseigneur,  slipped  quietly 
to  the  stairs  and  passed  up  to  her  room 
with  a  relief  in  her  heart  that  the  day  was 
over. 

The  last  white  fold  of  Lenore's  drapery  had 
scarcely  disappeared  round  the  bend  in  the 
[  20  ]  [  305  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

stairway,  when  there  came  a  knocking  upon 
the  outer  door  of  the  great  hall,  which  was 
presently  thrust  open,  before  one  of  the  hench 
men  could  reach  it,  to  let  in  a  beggar  from  the 
bitter  cold  outside.  It  was  the  last  day  of 
the  week  of  hospitality,  and  perhaps  this  wan 
derer  was  the  more  readily  admitted  for  that 
fact.  It  was  a  woman,  ragged,  unkempt,  and 
purple  with  cold.  Madame  Eleanore  just 
glanced  at  her,  and  then  signed  to  those  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  table  to  give  her  place 
with  them,  and  bring  her  food.  But  the  new 
comer  seemed  not  to  notice  the  invitations  of 
those  near  by.  She  stood  still,  gazing  intently 
toward  Madame  Eleanore,  till  presently  one 
of  the  henchmen,  somewhat  affected  with 
liquor,  sprang  from  his  place  with  the  inten 
tion  of  pulling  her  to  a  seat.  In  this  act  he 
got  a  view  of  her  face  with  the  light  from  a 
torch  falling  full  across  it.  Instantly  he  started 
back  with  a  loud  exclamation,  — 

"  Mademoiselle  ! " 

Then  all   at  once  the  woman,  holding  out 

both  her  arms  toward  madame's  chair,  swayed 

forward  to  her  knees  with  a  low  wailing  cry 

that  brought  the  whole  company  to  their  feet. 

[306] 


THE    WANDERER 

There  was  one  moment  of  terrible  silence,  and 
then  a  woman's  scream  rang  through  the 
room,  as  Madame  Eleanore  staggered  to  her 
feet  and  started  forward  to  the  side  of  the 
wanderer. 

"  Laure  !  Laure  !  O  God  !  my  Laure  !  " 
As  the  two  women  —  madame  now  on  her 
knees  beside  her  daughter  —  intertwined  their 
arms,  and  the  older  woman  felt  again  the  liv 
ing  flesh  of  her  flesh,  the  throng  at  the  table 
moved  slowly  together  and  drew  closer  and 
closer  to  these  central  figures.  Nearest  of  all 
stood  Alixe  and  Courtoise,  white-faced,  tremu 
lous,  but  with  great  joy  written  in  their  eyes. 
They  had  recognized  Laure  simultaneously 
an  instant  before  madame,  but  they  had  re 
strained  themselves  from  rushing  upon  her, 
leaving  the  first  place  to  the  mother. 

Eleanore  was  fondling  Laure  in  her  arms, 
murmuring  over  her  inarticulate  things,  while 
tears  streamed  from  her  eyes,  and  her  strained 
throat  palpitated  with  sobs.  What  Laure  did 
or  felt,  none  knew.  She  lay  back,  half- fain  ting, 
in  the  warm  clasp ;  but  presently  she  struggled 
a  little  away,  and  sat  straight.  Pushing  the 
tangled  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  —  those  black, 
[307] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

brilliant  eyes  that  were  still  undimmed, —  and 
seeing  the  universal  gaze  upon  her,  she  shrank 
within  herself,  and  whispered  to  her  mother : 
"In  the  name  of  God,  madame,  I  prithee  let 
me  be  alone  with  thee ! " 

Then  Eleanore  bethought  herself,  and  rose, 
lifting  Laure  also  to  her  feet.  For  a  moment 
she  looked  about  her,  and  then  with  a  mere 
lifting  of  her  hand  dispersed  the  crowd.  They 
melted  away  like  snow  in  rain,  till  only  three 
were  left  there  in  the  great  hall  :  Courtoise, 
Alixe,  and  lastly  monseigneur,  who  during 
the  whole  scene  had  stood  apart  from  the 
throng,  the  law  of  excommunication  heavy 
upon  him.  Forbid  a  mother,  starved  by 
nearly  a  year  of  denial  of  her  child,  to  satisfy 
herself  now  that  that  child  was  at  last  returned 
to  her  ?  Not  he,  the  man  of  flesh  and  blood 
and  human  passions  ! 

Madame  stood  still  for  an  instant  in  the 
centre  of  the  disordered  room,  supporting 
Laure  with  one  arm.  Then  she  turned  to 
Alixe. 

"  Go  thou,  Alixe,  and  get  food,  —  milk,  and 
meat,  and  bread,  —  and  bring  it  in  the  space 
of  a  few  moments  to  my  room.  But  let 
[308] 


THE    WANDERER 


no  other  seek  to  disturb  us  in  our  solitude. 
Now,  my  girl !  " 

Madame  led  her  daughter  across  the  hall 
and  up  the  stairs,  and  to  the  door  of  her 
bedroom,  into  which  Laure  passed  first.  Ma 
dame  followed  her  in,  and  closed  and  fastened 
the  door  after  her.  Then  she  turned  to 
her  child. 

At  last  they  were  alone,  where  no  human 
eyes  could  perceive  them,  no  human  ear  hear 
what  words  they  spoke.  And  now  Eleanore's 
arms  dropped  to  her  sides,  and  she  stood 
a  little  off,  face  to  face  with  Laure.  With 
Laure?  Yes,  it  was  she,  —  there  could  be 
but  one  woman  like  her,  —  with  her  tall,  lithe, 
straight  form,  terribly  wasted  now  by  hard 
ship  and  suffering :  with  those  firm  features, 
and  the  unrivalled  hair  that  hung,  brown  and 
unkempt,  to  her  knees.  And  again,  it  was 
not  the  Laure  that  the  mother  had  known. 
In  her  eyes  —  the  great,  doubting,  haunted, 
shifting  eyes  —  lay  plainly  written  the  story 
of  the  iron  that  had  entered  into  her  soul. 
And  there  was  that  in  her  manner,  in  her 
bearing,  that  something  of  defiant  reckless 
ness,  that  pierced  her  mother  like  a  knife. 
[309] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


It  was  not  the  rags  and  the  dirt  of  her  body  ; 
it  was  the  rags  and  dirt  of  her  denied  soul. 

The  girl  looked  straight  before  her  into 
space  ;  but  she  saw  her  mother's  head  sud 
denly  lowered,  and  she  saw  her  mother's  hands 
go  up  before  her  face. 

Then  came  Alixe's  knock  at  the  door ;  and 
Laure  went  and  opened  it,  took  in  the  food, 
set  it  down  on  the  bed,  shut  and  fastened  the 
door  again,  and  returned  to  her  mother,  who 
was  sitting  now  beside  the  shuttered  window, 
her  head  lying  on  her  arms,  which  rested  on  a 
table  in  front  of  her. 

There  was  a  silence.  Laure's  hand  crept 
up  to  her  throat  and  held  it  tight,  to  keep  the 
strain  of  repressed  sobs  from  bursting  her  very 
flesh.  Her  eyes  roved  round  the  old,  familiar, 
twilight  room  ;  but  just  now  she  did  not  see. 
Her  brain  was  reeling  under  its  weight  of 
agonized  weariness.  What  was  she  to  say 
or  do  ?  What  was  there  for  her  here  ?  Her 
mother  sat  yonder,  bent  under  the  weight  of 
her  sin.  Was  there  any  excuse  for  her  to 
make  ?  Should  she  try  to  give  reasons  ? 
Worst  of  all,  should  she  ask  forgiveness  ? 
Never !  Laure  had  the  pride  of  despair  left 
[310] 


THE    WANDERER 

<^^gr^-"FT?tr~«p?c^<^-<=^-<r~<^g--<-.~<^g- 

in  her  still.  She  had  come  home  dreaming 
that  the  gates  of  heaven  might  still  be  open 
to  her.  She  found  them  barred ;  and  the 
password  she  could  not  speak.  Hell  alone, 
it  seemed,  remained. 

<f  Madame,"  she  said  in  a  hard,  quiet  voice, 
"I  have  come  wrongfully  home,  thinking  thou 
couldst  give  me  succor  here.  But  I  per 
ceive  that  I  do  but  pain  thee.  I  will  go  forth 
again.  'T  is  ail  I  ask." 

At  the  mere  suggestion  that  Laure  should 
go  again,  madame's  heart  melted  and  ran  in 
tears  within  her.  "Ah,  Laure!  my  baby  — 
my  girl  —  thou  couldst  not  leave  me  again  ?  " 
she  cried  in  a  kind  of  wail. 

"  Mother  !  First  of  all,  I  came  to  thee  !  " 
said  the  girl,  in  a  whisper  that  was  very  near 
a  sob. 

But,  unexpectedly,  Eleanore  rose  again,  with 
a  gleam  of  anger  coming  anew  into  her  eyes. 
"Nay;  thou  didst  not  first  of  all  come  to 
me!  If  thou  hadst  —  if  thou  hadst — ere 
thou  wast  stolen  away  by  the  cowardly  dastard 
that  hath  ruined  thee  —  !  " 

Laure  trembled  violently,  and  her  voice  was 
faint  with  pleading :  "  Speak  no  ill  of  him, 
[311] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

madame !  I  was  not  stolen  away.  Freely, 
willingly,  I  went  with  him.  Freely — "  she 
drew  herself  up  and  held  her  head  high  — 
"  freely  and  willingly,  though  with  the  curse 
of  Heaven  on  my  head,  would  I  go  with  him 
still,  were  it  in  the  same  way  !  " 

"  God  of  God !  why  hast  thou  left  him, 
then  ? " 

A  black  shadow  spread  itself  out  before 
Laure's  eyes,  and  in  her  unpitying  wilderness 
her  woman's  soul  reeled,  blindly.  Her  voice 
shook  and  her  body  grew  rigid,  as  she  an 
swered  :  "  I  —  did  not  —  leave  him." 

"  He  is  dead  ?  "  Eleanore's  tone  was  softer. 

"  No ;  he  is  not  dead  !  "  Laure's  face  con 
torted  terribly,  as  there  suddenly  rushed  over 
her  the  memory  of  the  last  three  months  ;  and 
as  it  swept  upon  her,  she  sank  to  her  knees, 
and  held  out  her  hands  again  in  supplica 
tion :  "Ah,  pity  me!  pity  me!  As  thou'rt  a 
woman,  pity  me,  and  ask  me  not  what 's  gone  ! 
I  loved  him.  God  in  Heaven !  How  did 
I  love  him !  And  he  hath  gone  from  me. 
Mine  no  more,  he  left  me  to  wander  over 
the  face  of  the  earth.  He  left  me  to  weep 

and    mourn    through   all    the  years    of  mine 
[312] 


THE    WANDERER 

empty  life.  Flammecoeur !  Flammecoeur ! 
How  wast  thou  dearer  than  God  !  more  merci 
less  than  Him."  Here  her  words  became  so 
rapid  and  so  incoherent  that  all  meaning  was 
lost,  and  the  deserted  woman,  exhausted,  over 
come  with  her  torn  emotions,  presently  fell 
heavily  forward  to  the  floor,  in  a  faint. 

In  this  scene  Eleanore  had  forgotten  every 
scruple,  every  resentment,  everything  save  her 
own  motherhood  and  Laure's  need.  Putting 
aside  all  thought  of  the  girl's  shame,  her  aban 
donment,  her  rejection,  she  went  to  her  and 
lifted  her  up  in  her  strong  and  tender  arms, 
and,  with  the  art  known  only  to  the  big-souled 
women  of  her  type,  poured  comfort  upon  the 
bruised  and  broken  body  of  the  wanderer,  and 
words  of  cheer  and  encouragement  into  her 
more  cruelly  bruised  and  broken  mind.  In 
a  few  moments  Laure  had  recovered  con 
sciousness,  had  grown  calm,  and  was  weeping 
quietly  in  her  mother's  arms. 

Then  madame  began  to  make  her  fit  for 
the  Castle  again.  She  took  off  the  soiled  and 
ragged  garments,  that  hung  upon  the  skin  and 
bone  of  her  wasted  body.  She  bathed  the 
£>oor  flesh  with  hot  water,  and  with  her  own 
[313] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

tears.  She  combed  and  coiled  the  wonderful, 
tangled  hair.  And  lastly,  wrapping  her,  for 
warmth,  in  a  huge  woollen  mantle,  she  led 
Laure  over  to  her  bed,  drew  back  the  heavy 
curtains,  and  laid  the  weary  woman-child  in  it, 
to  rest. 

When  Laure  felt  this  soft  comfort;  when 
she  realized  where,  indeed,  she  was  and  who 
was  bending  over  her ;  when  she  knew  what 
land  of  love  and  of  tenderness  she  had  finally 
reached  after  her  months  of  anguished  wander 
ing, —  it  seemed  that  she  could  bear  no  more 
of  mingled  joy  and  pain.  She  let  her  tears  flow 
as  freely  as  they  would.  She  clung  to  her 
mother's  hand,  smoothing  it,  kissing  it,  press 
ing  it  to  her  cheek ;  and  finally,  lulled  by  the 
sound  of  her  mother's  voice  crooning  an  old 
familiar  lullaby,  her  mind  slipped  gradually  out 
of  reality,  and  she  went  to  sleep. 

Long  and  long  and  long  she  slept,  with  the 
sleep  of  one  that  is  leaving  an  old  life  behind, 
and  entering  slowly  into  the  new.  And  for 
many  hours  her  mother  watched  her,  in  the 
gathering  darkness,  till  after  Alixe  had  come 
softly  in,  and  lit  a  torch  near  by  the  bed.  And 
later  the  mother,  unwilling  to  leave  her  child 
[314] 


THE    WANDERER 

for  a  single  moment,  laid  herself  down,  dressed 
as  she  was,  and,  drawing  Laure's  passive  form 
close  to  her,  finally  closed  her  eyes,  and,  worn 
out  with  emotion  and  with  joy,  lost  herself  in 
the  mists  of  sleep. 


[315] 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

LAURE 


HROUGH  the  long,  chilly 
night,  mother  and  daughter 
slept  together,  each  with  peace 
in  her  heart.  At  dawn,  how 
ever,  madame  slipped  quietly 
outof  Laure's  unconscious  em 
brace,  and  rose  and  prepared  herself  for  the  day. 
And  presently  she  left  the  room,  while  Laure 
still  slept.  It  was  some  time  afterwards  before 
there  crept  upon  the  blank  of  the  girl's  mind 
a  dim,  fluttering  shadow  telling  her  that  light 
had  come  again  over  the  world.  How  long 
it  was  before  this  first  sense  became  a  double 
consciousness,  no  one  knows.  Laure's  stupor 
had  been  so  heavy,  she  had  been  so  utterly 
dead  in  her  weariness,  that  it  required  a  pow 
erful  subconscious  effort  to  throw  off  the  bonds 

of  sleep.     But  when  the  two   heavy  eyes  at 
[316] 


LAURE 

^rfTJgrsr~g^g-- 

last  fell  open,  she  gasped,  and  sat  suddenly  up 
in  her  bed. 

"  Holy  Mother  !  it  is  an  angel !  " 

The  face  that  she  looked  on  smiled  sunnily. 

"  No.  I  am  Lenore."  And  she  would  have 
come  round  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  but  that 
Laure  held  up  a  hand  to  stay  her. 

"  Prithee,  prithee,  do  not  move,  thou  spirit 
of  Lenore  !  Am  I,  then,  come  into  thy  land  ? 
Is  *t  heaven  —  for  me  ?  " 

For  an  instant,  at  the  easily  explainable  illu 
sion  about  that  other,  the  new  Lenore' s  head 
drooped,  and  she  sighed.  How  full  of  the 
dead  maiden  was  every  member  of  this  Twi 
light  Castle  !  But  again,  shaking  off  the  mo 
mentary  melancholy,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and 
answered  Laure's  fixed  look.  So  these  two 
young  women,  whose  histories  had  been  so 
utterly  different,  and  yet  in  their  way  so  pitia 
bly  alike,  learned,  in  this  one  long  glance,  to 
know  each  other.  Into  Laure's  deeply  burn 
ing  eyes,  Lenore  gazed  till  she  was  as  one 
under  a  hypnotic  spell.  Her  senses  were  all 
but  swimming  before  the  other  turned  her 
look,  and  then  she  asked  dreamily :  "  Thou 
art  Lenore.  Tell  me,  who  is  Lenore  ?  " 
[317] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

The  other  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  had 
learned  from  Alixe,  on  the  previous  evening, 
the  history  of  the  strange  home-coming,  and 
all  that  any  one  knew  of  what  had  gone  be 
fore  it;  and  she  realized  that  any  question  that 
Laure  might  ask  must  be  fully  answered.  Yet 
it  cost  her  a  strong  mental  effort  before  she 
could  say  :  "  I  was  the  wife  of  thy  brother." 

"  Ah  !  Gerault !  Where  is  he  ?  "  Laure 
paused  for  an  instant.  "  Thou  —  wast  —  his 
wife,  thou  sayest  ?  " 

Lenore  gazed  at  her  sadly,  wondering  if  the 
wanderer  must  so  soon  be  confronted  with  new 
sorrow.  Laure  sat  there,  bewildered,  but  ques 
tioning  with  her  eyes,  a  suggestion  of  fear  be 
ginning  to  show  in  her  face.  Lenore  realized 
how  madame  must  shrink  from  telling  the 
story  of  Gerault's  death  ;  so,  presently,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  Laure's  again,  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  — 

"  Gerault's  wife  was  I,  because  —  since  Sep 
tember,  thy  brother  —  sleeps  —  in  the  chapel 
—  by  his  father." 

Laure  listened  with  wide  eyes  to  these  words; 
and,  having  heard,  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 
A  few  tears  gathered  slowly,  and  fell  down  her 
[318] 


LAURE 

face  to  her  woollen  robe,  and  then  she  bowed 
her  head  till  it  rested  on  the  hands  clasped  on 
her  knee.  Lenore  stood  where  she  was,  look 
ing  on,  knowing  not  whether  to  go  or  stay ; 
realizing  instinctively  that  there  are  natures  that 
desire  to  find  their  own  comfort. 

While  Lenore  was  still  debating  the  point, 
Madame  Eleanore  and  Alixe  came  together 
into  the  room  ;  and  as  soon  as  madame  beheld 
Lenore,  she  knew  that  her  daughter  had 
learned  all  that  she  was  to  know  of  sorrow : 
that  what  she  herself  most  dreaded,  had  mer 
cifully  come  to  pass.  And  going  to  the  bed, 
she  took  Laure  into  her  arms. 

Their  embrace  was  as  close  as  the  first  of 
yesterday  had  been.  Laure  clung  to  her 
mother,  getting  comfort  from  the  mere  con 
tact;  and,  in  her  child's  grief  for  the  dead, 
Eleanore  felt  the  touch  of  that  sympathy  for 
which  she  had  hungered  in  silence  through 
the  first  shock  of  her  loss.  For  Laure  was 
of  her  own  blood  and  of  Gerault's  ;  had  known 
the  Seigneur  as  brother,  companion,  and  equal, 
and  had  looked  up  to  him  even  as  he  had 
looked  up  to  his  mother.  Thus,  bitterly  poig 
nant  as  were  these  moments  of  fresh  grief, 
[319] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

there  was  in  them  also  a  great  consolation,  — 
the  consolation  of  companionship.  And  when 
finally  madame  raised  her  head,  there  was  writ 
ten  in  her  face  what  none  had  seen  there  since 
the  time  of  Laure's  departure  for  her  novitiate 
at  La  Madeleine.  Then  she  reminded  Laure  of 
Alixe's  presence,  and  Laure,  looking  up,  smiled 
through  her  tears,  and  held  out  both  hands. 

"  Alixe  !  Alixe  !  my  sister  !  Art  thou  glad 
I  am  come  home  ?  " 

"  So  glad,  Laure  !  There  have  been  many 
hours  empty  for  want  of  thee  since  thy  going. 
And  art  thou  —  "  she  hesitated  a  little  —  "art 
thou  to  stay  with  us  now  ?  " 

Accidentally,  inadvertently,  had  come  the 
question  that  had  lain  hidden  both  in  Laure's 
heart  and  in  her  mother's  since  almost  the  first 
moment  of  the  return.  Laure  herself  dared 
not  answer  Alixe ;  but  she  looked  fearfully  at 
her  mother,  her  eyes  filled  with  mute  pleading. 
And  Eleanore,  seeing  the  look,  made  a  sudden 
decision  in  her  heart, — 

"  Yea !     Laure    shall    stay  .with    us    now  ! 
There  shall  be  no  doubting  of  it.      Laure  is 
my  child  ;  and  I   shall  keep  her  with  me,  an 
all  Christendom  forbid  !  " 
[320] 


LAURE 

The  last  sentence  flew  out  in  answer  to 
madame's  secret  fears ;  and  she  did  not  real 
ize  how  much  meaning  it  might  hold  for  other 
ears.  Her  speech  was  followed  by  an  intense 
silence.  Laure  did  not  dare  ask  aloud  the 
questions  that  reason  answered  for  her ;  and 
Lenore  and  Alixe  both  felt  that  it  was  not 
their  place  to  speak.  In  the  end,  then,  Elea- 
nore  herself  had  to  break  the  strain,  which  she 
did  by  saying,  with  a  brisk  air, — 

"  Come,  come,  Laure !  Rise,  and  go  into 
thine  own  room  here.  I  have  laid  out  one 
of  the  old-time  gowns,  with  shoes,  chemise, 
bliault,  and  under-tunic  complete,  and  also  a 
wimple  and  head-veil.  Make  thyself  ready 
for  the  day,  while  we  go  down  to  break  our 
fast.  When  thou  'rt  dressed  I  will  have  food 
brought  thee  here ;  and  after  thou  'st  eaten, 
monseigneur  will  come  up  to  thee.  Hasten, 
for  'tis  rarely  cold  !  " 

Laure  jumped  from  the  bed  eager  to  see  her 
childhood's  room  again  ;  eager  for  her  meal ; 
most  of  all  eager,  in  spite  of  her  apprehen- 
siveness,  to  know  what  St.  Nazaire  had  to  say 
to  her.  As  she  paused  to  gather  her  mantle 
close  about  her,  and  to  push  the  hair  out  of 
[  21  ]  [  321  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

her  eyes,  her  gaze  chanced  to  meet  that  of 
Lenore.  There  was  between  them  no  spoken 
word;  but  in  that  instant  was  born  a  sudden 
affection  which,  while  they  lived  together,  saw 
not  the  end  of  its  growth. 

As  Eleanore  and  the  two  young  women  left 
madame's  room"  on  their  way  downstairs,  Laure 
entered  alone  into  the  room  of  her  youth  and 
her  innocence.  It  was  exactly  as  it  had  been  on 
the  day  she  last  saw  it.  The  small,  curtained 
bed  was  ready  for  occupancy.  The  chairs, 
the  table,  the  round  steel  mirror,  the  carved 
wooden  chest  for  clothes,  lastly,  the  small  prie- 
dieu,  were  just  where  they  had  always  stood. 
The  wooden  shutters  were  open,  and  the  half- 
transparent  glass  was  all  aflame  with  the  reflec 
tion  of  sunlight  on  the  sea;  for  the  cold,  clear 
morning  was  advancing.  Across  a  narrow  set 
tle,  beside  one  of  the  windows,  lay  the  clothes 
that  the  mother  had  selected,  —  the  girlhood 
clothes  that  she  had  worn  in  those  years  of 
her  other  life.  Like  one  that  dimly  dreams, 
Laure  took  these  garments  up,  one  by  one, 
and  examined  them,  handling  them  with  the 
same  ruminative  tenderness  of  touch  that  she 
might  have  used  for  some  one  that  had  been 
[322] 


LAURE 

^^g^>e-~e^>c^g'sy5>g-S'^<^^?><^^<^^ 

very  dear  to  her,  but  had  died  long  since,  —  so 
long  that  the  bitterness  of  death  had  gone  from 
memory. 

When  she  had  looked  at  them  for  a  long 
time,  Laure  began  slowly  to  don  her  clothes. 
She  performed  her  toilet  with  all  the  precision 
of  her  maidenhood,  coiling  her  hair  with  a 
care  that  suggested  vanity,  and  adjusting  her 
filet  and  veil  with  the  same  touch  that  they 
had  known  so  many  times  before.  Her  outer 
tunic  was  of  green  sale;  and  even  though 
her  whole  form  had  grown  deplorably  thin, 
she  found  it  a  little  snug  in  bust  and  hip. 
Finally,  when  she  was  quite  dressed,  she  sat 
down  at  one  of  the  windows  to  wait  for  some 
one  to  bring  food  to  her.  To  her  surprise,  it 
was  Lenore  who  carried  up  the  tray  of  bread 
and  milk  ;  and  she  found  herself  a  little  re 
lieved  that  no  former  member  of  the  Castle 
was  to  see  her  yet  in  the  familiar  dress  of 
long  ago.  When  she  took  the  tray  from  the 
frail  white  hands  of  her  sister-in-law,  she  mur 
mured  gratefully  :  "  I  thank  thee  that  thou 
hast  deigned  to  wait  on  me,  madame." 

Lenore's  big  blue  eyes  opened  wide,  as  she 
.smiled  and  answered :  "  Prithee,  say  not  c  ma- 
[323] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

dame.'  Rather,  if  thou  canst,  I  would  have 
thee  call  me  ( sister,'  for  such  I  should  wish 
to  be  to  thee." 

"My  sister!"  Laure's  voice  was  choked  as 
she  raised  both  arms  and  threw  them  about 
the  slender  body  of  the  other  girl  with  such 
abandon  that  Lenore  was  obliged  to  put  her 
off  a  little.  Finally,  however,  Laure  sat  down 
to  the  table  on  which  she  had  placed  her 
simple  breakfast,  and  as  she  carried  the  first 
bite  to  her  lips,  Lenore  moved  softly  toward 
the  door.  Before  going  out,  however,  she 
turned  and  said  quietly :  "  Thou  'It  not  be 
long  alone.  The  Bishop  is  coming  to  thee 
at  once." 

Laure's  spoon  fell  suddenly  into  her  bowl, 
and  she  looked  quickly  round ;  but,  to  her 
chagrin,  Lenore  had  already  slipped  away. 

Left  to  herself,  Laure  could  not  eat.  Hun 
gry  as  she  was,  her  anxiety  and  her  suspense 
were  greater  than  her  appetite.  Why  was  it 
that  Lenore  had  so  suddenly  escaped  from 
her  ?  Why  was  it  that  she  had  seen  no  mem 
bers  of  the  Castle  company  save  three  women 
since  her  home-coming?  Why  was  she  forced 
thus  to  eat  alone  ?  Above  all,  why  should  the 
[324] 


LAURE 

Bishop  come  to  her  here,  instead  of  receiving 
her,  as  had  been  his  custom,  in  the  chapel  ? 
Laure  remembered  the  last  serious  talk  she 
had  had  with  St.  Nazaire,  and  shuddered. 
In  her  own  mind  she  realized  perfectly  the 
spiritual  enormity  of  her  sin  ;  and,  however 
persistently  she  might  refuse  to  confess  it 
to  herself,  she  knew  also  what  the  penalty 
of  that  sin  must  be.  It  was  many  minutes 
before  she  could  force  herself  to  recommence 
her  meal;  and  she  had  taken  little  when  there 
was  a  tap  on  the  door.  She  had  not  time 
to  do  more  than  rise  when  the  door  opened, 
and  her  mother,  followed  by  St.  Nazaire, 
entered  the  room. 

Madame  dropped  behind  as  the  Bishop 
advanced,  and  Laure  bowed  before  him. 

"  My  child,  I  trust  thou  art  found  well 
in  body?"  said  St.  Nazaire,  more  solemnly 
than  she  had  ever  heard  him  speak. 

"  Yes,  monseigneur,"  was  the  subdued 
reply. 

Now  madame  came  up,  and  indicated  a  chair 

to  the  Bishop,  who,  after  seeing  her  seated,  sat 

down   himself,  while   Laure   remained   on  her 

feet  in  front  of  them.     Then  followed  a  pause, 

[325] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


uncomfortable  to  all,  terrifying  to  Laure,  who 
was  becoming  hysterically  nervous  with  dread. 
She  dared  not,  however,  break  the  silence;  and 
with  a  convulsive  sigh  she  folded  her  arms 
across  her  breast,  and  stood  waiting  for  what 
ever  was  to  come.  Monseigneur  regarded  her 
closely  and  steadily,  as  if  he  were  reading 
something  that  he  wished  to  know  of  her, 
but  at  the  same  time  he  did  not  make  her 
shrink  from  him.  On  the  contrary,  his  ex 
pression  brought  the  assurance  that  he  had 
lost  nothing  of  his  old-time  sympathy  with 
human  nature.  His  first  question  was  un 
hesitatingly  direct. 

"  Laure,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "  art  thou 
bound  by  the  marriage  tie  to  this  Bertrand 
Flammecoeur  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  Laure  trembled, 
and  her  white  face  grew  whiter  still.  "  No," 
she  answered  in  a  half-whisper,  at  the  same 
time  clenching  her  two  hands  till  the  nails 
pierced  her  flesh. 

"  And  thou  hast  lived  with  him,  under  his 
name,  since  thy  departure  from  the  priory  of 
the  Holy  Madeleine  ?  " 

Laure  paused  for  a  moment  to  steady  her 
[326] 


LAURE 

voice,  and  then  answered  huskily :  "  Until 
two  months  past." 

"  And  in  that  two  months  ?  " 

cc  I  have  begged  my  way  from  where  we 
were —  hither." 

"  Thou  hast  in  this  time  known  none  but 
the  man  Flammecceur  ?  " 

Laure  crimsoned  and  put  up  her  hand  in 
protest.  Then  she  said  quietly,  "  None." 

Monseigneur  bowed  his  head  and  remained 
silent  for  a  moment.  When  he  looked  at 
her  again  it  was  with  a  gentler  expression. 
"  Laure,"  said  he,  in  a  very  kindly  voice,  "  but 
a  little  time  after  thy  flight  from  the  priory, 
I  placed  upon  thee,  and  upon  the  man  that 
abducted  thee,  the  ban  of  excommunication, 
for  violating  the  holiest  laws  of  the  Holy 
Church.  That  ban  is  not  yet  raised,  and  by 
it,  as  well  thou  knowest,  all  that  come  in  vol 
untary  contact  with  thee  are  defiled." 

For  a  moment  Laure  dropped  her  head  to 
her  breast.  When  she  lifted  it  again,  her  face 
had  not  changed ;  and  she  asked,  "  Can  that 
ban  ever  be  lifted  ?  " 

"  Yes.     By  me." 

Laure  fell  upon  her  knees  before  him. 
[327] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  What  must  I  do  ?  Tell  me  the  penance  ! 
I  would  give  anything  —  even  to  my  life  — 
yet  —  nay  !  There  is  one  thing  I  will  not  do." 

St.  Nazaire  frowned.  "  What  is  that  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Father,  I  will  not  go  back  into  the  priory. 
I  will  never  return  alive  into  that  living  death. 
Rather  would  I  cast  myself  from  the  top 
of  the  Castle  cliff  into  the  sea  below,  and 
trust —  " 

"  Laure  !  Laure  !  Be  silent !"  cried  Eleanore, 
sharply. 

Laure  stopped  and  stood  motionless,  her 
eyes  aflame,  her  face  deathly  white,  her  fingers 
twining  and  intertwining  among  themselves, 
as  she  waited  for  St.  Nazaire  to  speak  again. 
His  hands  were  folded  upon  his  knee,  and  he 
appeared  lost  in  thought.  Only  after  an  un 
endurable  suspense  did  he  look  again  into  the 
girl's  eyes,  saying  slowly,  in  a  tone  lower  than 
was  habitual  to  him,  — 

"  Thou  tookest  once  the  vows  of  the  nun. 
These,  it  is  true,  thou  hast  broken  continually, 
and  hast  abused  and  violated  till  their  chain 
of  virtue  binds  thee  no  more.  Yet  the  words 
of  those  vows  passed  thy  lips  scarce  more  than 
[328] 


LAURE 

a  year  agone  ;  and  for  that  reason  thou  art  not 
free.  Ere  thou  canst  be  absolved  of  duty  to 
the  priory,  thou  must  go  to  the  Mother- 
prioress  and  ask  her  humbly  if  she  will  again 
receive  thee  into  the  convent.  An  she  refuse, 
thou  wilt  be  freed  from  the  bond." 

"  Monseigneur — will  she  set  me  free?" 
asked  Laure,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Yea,  Laure  ;  for  methinks  I  shall  counsel 
her  so  to  do.  Thou  hast  not  the  vocation  of 
a  nun.  Thy  spirit  is  too  much  thine  own,  too 
freedom-loving,  to  accept  the  suppression  of 
that  secluded  life.  If  I  will,  I  can  see  to  it  that 
thou  'rt  freed  from  the  priory.  But  that  being 
accomplished — what  then,  Demoiselle  Laure?" 

"Ah  —  after  that — may  not  the  ban  be 
removed  ?  Can  I  obtain  no  absolution  ?  Can 
I  not  be  made  free  to  dwell  here  in  my  home 
in  my  beloved  Castle,  —  my  fitting  Crepuscule  ? 
—  Mother !  Shall  I  not  be  received  here  ? 
Have  I  no  home  ?  " 

"  This  is  thy  home,  and  I  thy  mother 
always.  Though  my  soul  be  condemned  to 
eternal  fire,  Laure,  thou  art  my  child,  the  flesh 
of  my  flesh  and  the  blood  of  my  blood  ;  and 
I  will  not  give  thee  up." 

[329] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


"  Eleanore  !  "  The  Bishop  spoke  sharply, 
and  his  face  grew  severe.  "  Eleanore,  deceive 
not  thyself.  Nor  yet  thou,  thou  child  of  wil- 
fulness  !  Laure  hath  sinned  not  only  against 
the  rules  of  her  Church  and  her  God,  but 
against  the  laws  of  mankind.  Her  sin  has 
been  great  and  very  ugly.  Think  not  that, 
by  brave  words  of  motherhood,  or  many  tears 
and  pleadings  of  sudden  repentance,  she  can 
regain  her  old  position.  The  stain  of  this 
bygone  year  will  remain  upon  her  forever. 
She  is  under  a  heavy  ban,  and  she  must  go 
through  a  rigorous  penance  ere  she  can  be 
received  again  among  the  undefiled.  Art 
ready,  Laure,  to  place  thy  sick  soul  in  my 
hands  ?  " 

Laure  bent  her  head. 

"Then  I  prescribe  for  thee  this  penance: 
Thou  shalt  go  alone,  on  foot,  to  Holy  Made 
leine,  and  there  seek  of  the  Reverend  Mother 
thy  freedom  from  the  priory.  If  it  be  granted, 
thou  mayest  return  hither  to  this  same  room 
and  remain  shut  up  in  utter  solitude,  to  pray 
and  fast  as  rigorously  as  thy  body  will  admit, 
for  the  space  of  fourteen  days.  If,  by  that 
time,  thou  art  come  to  see  truly  the  mag- 
[330] 


LAURE 

nitude  of  thy  offence,  and  if  thy  mind  be 
purified  of  evil  thoughts  and  thy  heart  opened 
to  the  abounding  mercy  of  God,  I  will  absolve 
thee  of  thy  sin,  and  lift  away  the  ban  of 
Heaven.  For  meseemeth,  my  daughter,  that 
thy  sin  found  thee  out  or  ever  thou  hadst 
reached  this  house  of  safety.  There  is  the 
mark  of  suffering  upon  thy  brow,  and,  seeing 
it,  I  bow  before  the  power  of  God,  that  hold- 
eth  over  us  whithersoever  we  may  go.  But  see 
that  in  thy  lonely  hours  thou  find  true  repent 
ance  for  thy  evil  deed.  For  if  that  come  not, 
then  truly  shalt  thou  be  an  outcast  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.  I  will  go  to-day  to  the  priory  to 
talk  with  the  Mere  Piteuse,  if  thy  heart  ac- 
cepteth  my  word." 

Laure  fell  upon  her  knees  before  the  Bishop 
and  kissed  his  hand  in  token  of  submission. 
St.  Nazaire  suffered  her  for  a  few  moments 
to  humble  herself,  and  then,  lifting  her 
up,  he  rose  himself  and  quickly  left  the 
room. 

Eleanore  remained  a  few  moments  longer 
with  her  daughter,  and  then  went  away,  leav 
ing  Laure  alone  again,  to  dread  the  ordeal  that 
was  before  her,  the  facing  of  the  assemblage 
[331] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

of  nuns  in  that  place  that  she  remembered  as 
her  heart's  prison. 

By  order  of  the  Bishop,  Laure  was  left  alone 
all  day,  and  this  twenty-four  hours  was  the 
most  wretched  th-at  she  had  to  spend  after 
her  return  to  Le  Crepuscule.  On  the  follow 
ing  day  she  went  alone  to  the  priory,  —  not 
on  foot,  as  the  Bishop  had  at  first  commanded  ; 
for  the  snow  was  too  deep,  and  Laure  too 
much  exhausted  by  her  privations  of  the  last 
two  months,  for  her  safely  to  endure  the 
fatigue  of  such  a  walk.  She  rode  thither  on 
horseback  ;  and  possibly  extracted  more  soul's 
good  out  of  the  ride  than  she  would  have  got 
afoot,  for  the  whole  way  was  laden  with  bitter 
memories  and  grief  and  shame.  The  Bishop 
himself  met  her  at  the  priory  gate,  and  he 
remained  at  her  side  throughout  the  time  that 
she  was  there.  The  ordeal  was  not  terrible. 
Mere  Piteuse  bore  out  her  name,  and  Laure 
thought  that  the  spirit  of  the  Saviour  had 
surely  descended  upon  the  reverend  woman. 
As  an  unheard-of  concession,  the  penitent  was 
permitted  to  recant  her  vows  before  only  the 
eight  officers  of  the  priory  assembled  in  the 
chapter-house,  instead  of  before  the  whole 
[332] 


LAURE 

^SSS^S^C3S^S5 

company  of  nuns  in  the  great  church ;  and 
thus  Laure  did  not  see  at  all  her  former  com 
panion  and  abettor,  Sceur  Eloise,  a  meeting 
with  whom  she  had  dreaded  more  than  any 
thing  else.  And  when,  in  the  afternoon, 
Laure  finally  rode  away  from  the  priory  gate, 
it  was  with  a  heart  throbbing  with  devotion 
for  St.  Nazaire  and  his  goodness  to  her. 
Swiftly  and  eagerly,  in  the  falling  twilight,  she 
traversed  the  road  leading  back  to  the  Castle, 
and,  when  she  reached  home,  night  had  fallen. 
Her  mother,  who  had  spent  the  day  in  the 
deepest  anxiety,  was  waiting  for  her  in  the 
great  hall,  and,  the  moment  that  Laure  entered, 
weary  with  the  now  unusual  exercise,  she  cried 
out,  "  It  is  well  ?  Thou  art  dismissed  ?  " 

And  as  Laure  began  to  answer  the  question 
with  a  full  description  of  the  day,  her  mother 
drew  her  slowly  up  the  stairs,  across  the  hall, 
and  finally  into  her  own  narrow  room,  which 
was  to  be  the  chamber  of  penance.  When  they 
entered-  there,  Laure  became  suddenly  silent ; 
for  the  little  place  was  dark  and  chill,  and  the 
thought  of  what  was  before  her  struck  an 
added  tremor  to  her  heart.  Madame  read  her 
thoughts  and  said  gently,  — 
[333] 


.THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  Be  not  so  sad,  dear  child.  When  thou  think- 
est  of  the  fair,  pure,  loving  life  that  lies  before 
us,  in  this  Castle  of  thy  youth,  surely  fourteen  lit 
tle  days  of  peaceful  solitude  cannot  fright  thee  ? 
Think  always  that  God  is  on  high,  and  that 
around  thee  are  those  that  love  thee  well ;  and 
thus  thou  canst  not  be  very  miserable.  Lights 
and  food  shall  be  brought ;  and  then  —  I  bid 
thee  make  much  of  thy  solitude,  my  child ; 
for  there  is  no  more  healing  balm  for  wounded 
souls.  Now,  commending  thee  to  the  mercy 
of  the  All-merciful,  I  leave  thee." 

In  the  darkness,  Laure  clung  to  her  mother 
as  if  it  were  their  last  embrace,  and  madame 
had  to  put  the  girl's  hands  away  before  she 
would  bear  to  be  left  alone.  But  at  last  the 
door  was  closed  and  bolted  on  the  outside ; 
and  Laure,  within,  knew  that  her  imprison 
ment  was  begun.  Feeling  her  way  to  a  chair, 
she  seated  herself  thereon,  and  laid  her  head  in 
her  hands.  Burning  and  incoherent  thoughts 
hurried  through  her  brain,  and  she  was  still 
lost  in  these  when  there  was  a  soft  tap  at  her 
door,  and  the  outer  bolt  was  drawn.  She  rose 
and  stumbled  hurriedly  to  open  it,  but  there 
was  no  one  outside.  On  the  floor  was  a  burn- 
[334] 


LAURE 

^s^rg-ss-g^ga 

ing  candle,  and  a  tray  on  which  stood  a  jug  of 
water  and  a  loaf  of  bread.  As  she  took  them 
in,  Laure  experienced  a  wave  of  desolation. 
However,  she  set  the  food  and  drink  down 
on  her  table,  lighted  the  torch  on  the  wall  at 
the  candle-flame,  and  finally  sat  herself  down 
to  eat.  No  grace  to  God  passed  her  lips  as 
she  took  her  first  bite  from  the  loaf;  for  her 
heart  was  bitter  in  its  weariness.  But  after  she 
had  eaten  and  drunk  she  lost  the  inclination  to 
brood ;  and,  overcome  with  weariness  and  the 
emotions  of  the  day,  she  hurriedly  disrobed,  ex 
tinguished  both  her  lights,  and  crept,  with  her 
first  sense  of  comfort,  into  the  warmly  covered 
bed.  For  a  long  time  she  lay  there,  chilly  and  a 
little  nervous,  but  thinking  of  nothing.  Then 
gradually  her  spirit  grew  calmer ;  some  of  the 
weariness  was  done  away,  and  she  fell  asleep. 

When  next  she  woke  it  was  daylight,  —  a 
gray,  January  morning,  —  and  Laure  realized, 
rather  disconsolately,  that  she  could  sleep  no 
more  for  the  time.  Therefore  she  left  her  bed, 
threw  a  mantle  around  her,  and  went  to  the 
door,  to  see  if  there  might  be  food  without. 
Somewhat  to  her  dismay,  she  found  the  door 
locked  fast,  and,  having  no  means  of  knowing 
[335] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

what  the  hour  might  be,  she  thought  that  pos 
sibly  she  had  overslept,  and  that  she  should 
have  nothing  to  eat  throughout  the  morning. 
The  heaviness  of  her  head  told  her  that  she 
had  slept  too  long;  and,  not  daring  to  get 
back  to  bed  again,  she  began  resignedly  to 
dress.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  her  toilet 
when  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  she 
flew  to  open  it.  Outside  stood  a  kitchen-boy, 
who  handed  her  a  tray  containing  fresh  bread 
and  water,  and  asked  her  with  formal  respect 
for  the  stale  food  of  the  night  before.  This 
she  gave  him ;  and  immediately  the  door  was 
shut  and  rebolted. 

With  grim  precision  Laure  finished  dressing 
and  broke  her  fast,  meantime  keeping  her 
thoughts  fixed  on  the  most  trivial  subjects. 
But  when  her  meal  was  over,  and  she  knew 
how  long  the  day  must  be,  and  realized  that 
there  was  no  escape  from  herself,  she  sat  down 
in  the  largest  chair  in  the  room,  let  her  eyes 
wander  over  the  familiar  objects,  and  allowed 
her  thoughts  to  take  what  form  they  would. 
The  terrible  fatigue  of  her  lonely  journey  was 
quite  gone  now.  Nor  was  there  in  her  own 
person  anything  to  remind  her  of  her  recent 
[336] 


*     * 


~£5       S: 
<u 

£       g 

s?    « 
8    § 


LAURE 

S2£2£=SXS=S3 

suffering.  Her  body  was  clean,  well-clothed, 
and  warm,  and,  in  her  youth,  the  memory 
of  the  past  terrible  two  months  grew  dim, 
and  instead  there  rose  up  before  her  mental 
vision  a  very  different  picture,  —  an  image,  — 
the  image  of  the  idol  and  the  ruin  of  her  life  : 
her  joy,  her  shame,  her  ecstasy,  and  her  de 
spair ;  Bertrand  Flam mecoeur,  the  troubadour, 
in  his  matchless,  irresponsible  untrustworthi- 
ness,  his  incomparable  beauty,  his  fiery  en 
thusiasm.  For,  strange  as  it  may  be,  all  the 
bitterness,  all  the  suffering  that  this  man  had 
brought  her,  had  not  killed  her  love  for  him 
nor  blackened  his  image  in  her  heart.  There 
being  nothing  to  check  her  fancy,  Laure  went 
mentally  back  to  the  hour  of  her  flight  with 
the  troubadour,  and  passed  slowly  over  the 
whole  period  of  their  life  together,  —  from 
the  first  days  of  physical  agony  and  mental 
shame  through  the  period  of  increasing  de 
light,  to  the  culmination  of  her  happiness  in 
him  and  the  beginning  of  its  end.  Once  more 
she  reviewed  their  journey  out  of  Brittany  up 
the  north  coast  to  Calais,  whence,  in  the  fair 
spring  weather,  they  had  taken  passage  to 
Dover,  in  England,  thence  making  their  way 
[M]  [331] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

by  slow  stages  to  London.  Here,  in  the  train 
of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  uncle  of  the  young 
Richard,  the  most  powerful  man  in  the  king 
dom,  the  two  had  passed  their  summer.  To 
Laure  it  was  a  summer  of  fairyland.  Flamme- 
coeur  had  become  her  god,  and  she  saw  him 
ascend  height  after  height  of  popularity  and 
favor.  His  nationality  and  his  profession  won 
for  him  instant  recognition,  for  trouveres  from 
Provence  were  Persian  nightingales  to  the 
England  of  that  day.  And  after  his  first  in 
troduction  into  high  places,  his  breeding,  his 
dress,  and  his  graceful  personality  brought 
him  an  enviable  position,  especially  among 
the  women  of  the  court.  Laure  passed  always 
as  his  wife,  and  was  adroitly  exploited  among 
the  court  gallants.  She  was  still  too  single- 
minded  to  receive  the  slightest  taint  from  this 
life.  She  was  found  to  be  as  incorruptible  as 
she  was  pretty,  and  by  this  unusual  fact  her 
own  reputation  went  up,  and  her  popularity 
rivalled  that  of  the  troubadour.  If  this  man 
ner  of  life  sometimes  weighed  on  her  and 
brought  her  something  of  remorse,  she  found 
her  consolation  in  the  fact  that  Flammecceur 
never  wavered  in  his  fidelity.  For  the  time 
[338] 


LAURE 

S5£^£^SaS3 

being  he  was  thoroughly  infatuated  with  her; 
and  in  their  stolen  hours  of  golden  solitude 
both  of  them  found  their  reward  for  the  oft- 
times  wearisome  round  of  pleasures  that,  with 
them,  constituted  work. 

Now,  alone,  in  her  solitary  prison-room, 
Laure  of  Le  Crepuscule  reviewed  her  high  and 
holy  noon  of  love,  forgetting  its  subsequence, 
brooding  only  over  its  supreme  forgetful  ness, 
till  the  madness  of  it  was  tingling  in  her  every 
vein,  and  there  rushed  over  her  again,  in  a 
tumultuous  wave,  all  that  fierce  longing,  all 
that  hopeless  desire,  that  she  thought  herself 
to  have  endured  for  the  last  time.  In  their 
early  days  Flammecoeur  had  been  so  much 
her  companion,  so  devoted  to  her  in  little, 
pretty,  telling  ways,  so  constant  to  her  and  to 
her  alone,  that  the  thought  of  any  life  other  than 
the  one  with  him  would  have  been  to  her  like  a 
promise  of  eternal  death.  It  was  not  more  their 
hours  of  delirium  than  those  of  silent  com 
munion  that  they  had  held  together,  which 
brought  her  now  the  tears  of  hopeless  yearning. 
All  that  she  desired  without  him,  was  death. 
All  that  she  had  loved  or  cared  for  was  with 
him. 

[339] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

At  this  time  came  to  her  the  thought  of 
Lenore ;  and  she  had  an  instinctive  feeling 
that,  had  God  seen  fit  to  give  her  that  most 
precious  of  all  gifts,  motherhood,  this  peni 
tential  cell  had  not  been  the  end  for  her. 

Three  days  and  three  nights  did  Laure 
spend  in  this  state  of  bitter  rebellion  against 
her  lot ;  and  then,  from  overwishing,  came 
a  change.  Up  to  this  time,  in  her  new  flood 
of  grief  for  the  separation  from  Flammecoeur, 
she  had  driven  from  her  mind  every  creeping 
memory  of  the  day  of  his  change  toward  her. 
Another  woman  had  come  upon  the  horizon 
of  his  life  :  a  young  and  noble  Englishwoman, 
of  high  station.  And  soon  he  was  pursuing 
her  with  the  ardor  that  he  no  longer  spent 
on  Laure.  This  lady  was  one  of  the  first  that 
they  had  met  in  England,  and  Laure  had  liked 
her  before  Flammecoeur's  new  passion  began 
to  develop.  But  with  her  first  real  fears, 
the  poor  girl's  jealousy  was  born,  and  soon  it 
became  the  moving  spirit  of  her  life.  Many 
times  in  the  ensuing  weeks  —  those  bitter 
weeks  of  early  autumn  —  did  angry  words 
pass  between  her  and  her  protector,  her  only 
shield  from  the  world  in  this  strange  land. 
[340] 


LAURE 

C^SSSS=£SSES£SSSSSS^S3SS=SSS^?a 

Once,  in  a.  fit  of  uncontrollable  grief  and 
passion,  she  had  left  him,  and  for  two  days 
wandered  about  the  streets  of  London  till 
starvation  drove  her  back  to  the  lodgings  of 
the  Flaming-heart.  Her  reception  —  of  quiet 
indifference  —  on  her  return  showed  her  that 
her  world  was  in  a  state  of  dissolution.  For 
a  week  she  dwelt  among  its  ruins,  and  then, 
when  she  demanded  it,  he  told  her  that  she 
was  no  longer  dear  to  him,  and  he  begged 
her  to  take  what  money  he  had  and  to  set 
out  whither  she  would,  assuring  her  that  she 
would  find  no  difficulty  in  securing  some 
excellent  abiding-place  in  this  adopted  land. 
Laure  took  her  dismissal  heroically.  She 
knew  him  too  well  to  be  horrified  at  his 
suggestions  as  to  her  procedure  ;  and,  refus 
ing  his  gifts  of  money,  she  sold  the  clothes 
and  ornaments  that  he  had  given  her  in  a 
happier  day,  and  with  the  proceeds  started  on 
her  return  to  Crepuscule.  Her  little  store 
gave  out  when  she  had  scarce  more  than 
reached  France ;  and  the  last  half  of  the 
journey  had  been  accomplished  by  literally 
begging  her  way  from  hut  to  hut,  never 
giving  up  the  idea  of  at  last  reaching  the 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


only  refuge  she  could  trust,  —  the  place  where 
now  she  sat  dreaming  out  her  woe. 

Through  the  bitter  hours  when  her  old 
jealousy  took  possession  of  her  again  and 
seared  her  with  its  hot  flames,  Laure  found 
herself,  more  than  once,  gazing  fixedly  at  the 
little  priedieu  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
where,  as  a  child,  she  had  been  wont  to  kneel 
each  night  and  morning.  Since  the  hour  she 
had  left  the  priory,  a  prayer  had  scarcely 
passed  her  lips ;  and  now,  in  the  time  of 
reactive  sorrow,  she  felt  a  pride  about  kneel 
ing  in  supplication  to  Him  whose  laws  she 
had  so  freely  broken.  In  the  course  of  time, 
for  so  doth  solitude  work  changes  in  the 
hearts  of  the  most  stubborn,  the  spirit  of  real 
repentance  of  her  sin  came  over  her  ;  and  then, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  young  life,  she  wept 
unselfish  tears.  It  was  only  inch  by  inch  that 
she  crept  back  toward  the  place  of  heart's 
peace.  But  at  length,  on  the  tenth  day  of 
her  penance,  she  went  to  her  God ;  and, 
throwing  herself  at  the  feet  of  the  crucifix, 
claimed  her  own  from  the  All-merciful. 

Never  in  her  life  of  prayers  had  Laure 
prayed  as  she  prayed  now.  Now  at  last 
[342] 


LAURE 

God  was  a  living  Being,  and  she  was  come 
home  to  Him  for  forgiveness  and  for  comfort. 
Her  words  sprang  from  her  deepest  heart. 
Tears  of  joy,  not  pain,  welled  up  within 
her;  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  felt  her  purity 
coming  back  to  her  again.  She  believed  that 
she  was  received  before  the  throne,  and  lis 
tened  to ;  and  no  absolution  of  a  consecrated 
bishop  had  brought  her  such  confidence  as 
this,  her  first  unlettered  prayer. 

When  she  rose  from  her  knees  it  was  as  if 
she  had  been  bathed  in  spirit.  Her  oid  joy 
of  youth  was  again  alive  within  her  and  shone 
forth  from  her  eyes  with  a  radiant  softness.  A 
strange  quiet  took  possession  of  her ;  a  new 
peace  was  hidden  in  her  heart;  tranquillity 
reigned  about  her,  and  the  four  days  of  soli 
tude  that  remained  were  all  too  short.  She 
was  learning  herself  anew ;  but  she  dreaded 
that  time  when  others  should  look  into  her 
face  and  think  to  find  there  what  she  knew 
was  gone  from  her  forever.  After  her  first 
prayer  she  did  not  often  resume  the  accepted 
attitude  of  communication  with  the  Most 
High ;  yet  she  prayed  almost  continually, 
with  a  dreamy  fervor  peculiar  to  her  state. 
[343] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

She  still  thought  of  Flammecoeur,  but  no 
longer  with  desire ;  only  with  a  gentle  regret 
for  the  fever  of  his  soul  and  that  he  could 
never  know  such  peace  as  hers.  She  also  felt 
remorse  for  the  part  she  had  played  in  his 
life  ;  and  this  remorse  was  now  her  only  pain. 
She  suffered  under  it ;  but  it  was  easier  to 
endure  than  the  terrible,  restless  longing  that 
had  once  consumed  her.  Indeed,  at  this  time, 
Laure's  spirituality  was  exaggerated ;  for  soli 
tude  is  apt  to  breed  exaggeration  in  whatever 
mood  the  recluse  happens  to  be.  But  this 
state  was  also  bound  to  know  its  reaction ; 
and,  upon  the  whole,  it  was  as  well  that  the 
penitential  fortnight  was  near  its  end. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  day, 
Laure  dressed  herself  in  the  somberest  robe  to 
be  found  in  her  chest,  —  a  loose  tunic  of  rusty 
black,  with  mantle  of  the  same,  and  a  rosary 
around  her  waist  by  way  of  belt.  She  braided 
her  hair  into  two  long  plaits,  and  bound  these 
round  and  round  her  head  like  a  heavy  filet. 
This  was  all  of  her  coiffure.  When  she  was 
dressed,  she  stood  in  front  of  her  mirror  and 
looked  at  herself  by  the  smoky  light  of  a  torch. 
Her  vanity  was  not  flattered  by  the  reflection ; 
[344] 


LAURE 

?SiS:SiSCiS£^SD: 

but  steel  is  deceitful  sometimes,  and  Laure  did 
not  know  how  much  younger  she  had  grown  in 
the  two  weeks  of  her  penance.  As  the  hour  of 
liberty  approached,  she  became  not  a  little 
excited.  The  thought  of  being  surrounded  with 
such  a  throng  of  familiar  faces  set  her  aflame 
with  eagerness ;  and  she  waited,  literally  count 
ing  the  seconds,  till  she  should  be  set  free. 

Punctually  at  the  hour  in  which,  two  weeks 
before,  Laure  had  been  left  alone,  her  door 
was  opened,  and  Eleanore  and  Lenore  came 
together  into  the  room,  to  lead  the  prisoner 
down  to  the  chapel.  Madame  clasped  her 
warmly  by  the  hand,  and  looked  searchingly 
into  her  face :  but  that  was  all  the  salutation 
that  was  given,  for  the  ban  of  excommunication 
was  still  upon  her.  And  so,  without  a  word, 
the  three  moved  quickly  to  the  stairs,  and,  de 
scending,  passed  at  once  into  the  lighted  chapel. 

Of  all  the  ceremonies  that  had  been  per 
formed  in  that  little  room  since  it  was  built, 
more  than  two  centuries  before,  the  one  that 
now  took  place  was  perhaps  the  most  impres 
sive,  certainly  the  most  unique.  Laure,  in  her 
penitential  garb,  presented  a  curious  contrast 
to  the  gayly  robed  Castle  company,  and  to  St. 
[345] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Nazaire,  in  his  most  gorgeous  of  canonicals. 
Yet  Laure's  face  was  more  interesting  to  study 
than  anything  else  in  the  crowded  room.  St. 
Nazaire,  while  he  confessed  and  absolved  her, 
watched  her  with  an  interest  that  he  had  never 
felt  for  her  before ;  and  he  realized  that  prob 
ably  never  again  would  he  hear  such  a  confes 
sion  as  hers.  She  told  him  the  whole  story  of 
her  life  after  her  flight  from  the  priory,  with 
neither  break,  hesitation,  tremor,  nor  tear.  She 
took  her  absolution  in  uplifted  silence.  And 
when  the  ban  of  excommunication  was  raised 
from  her,  neither  the  Bishop  nor  her  mother 
could  guess,  from  her  face,  what  her  feeling  was. 
When  she  had  been  blessed,  and  the  gen 
eral  benediction  pronounced,  all  the  company 
came  crowding  to  her  to  give  her  welcome. 
After  that  followed  a  great  feast,  at  which  Laure 
ate  not  a  mouthful,  and  drank  nothing  but 
a  cup  of  milk.  And  finally,  when  all  the 
merrymaking  was  through,  the  young  woman 
returned  alone  to  her  room,  and,  this  time  with 
her  door  bolted  from  within,  lay  down  upon 
her  bed  and  wept  as  if  her  heart  had  finally 
dissolved  in  tears. 

[346] 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 


LENORE 


N  the  morning  of  the  sixteenth 
of  January,  Laure  went  into 
the  spinning-room  with  the 
c  other  women,  to  begin  the  old, 
familiar  work.  The  sight  of 
that  room  brought  back  to  her 
a  peculiar  sensation.  Long-forgotten  memo 
ries  of  her  girlhood's  yearnings  and  restless 
discontents,  half-formed  plans  and  desires, 
picture  after  picture  of  what  she  had  once 
imagined  convent  life  to  be,  crowded  thick 
upon  her,  and  caused  her  to  shudder,  knowing 
what  these  vague  dreams  had  led  her  to.  Here 
was  the  room,  with  its  row  of  wheels  and  tam 
bour-frames,  and,  at  the  end,  the  big,  wooden 
loom,  filled  with  red  warp.  Everywhere  were 
little  disorderly  heaps  of  flax  and  uncarded 
wool,  bits  of  thread  and  silk,  and  long  woollen 

r 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

remnants  clipped  from  uneven  tapestry  borders. 
In  a  moment  this  place  would  be  alive  with 
the  droning  buzz  of  wheels,  the  clack-clack  of 
the  loom,  and  the  bright  chatter  of  feminine 
voices.  Laure  heard  it  all  in  the  first  glance 
down  the  room,  and  in  the  same  instant  she 
lived  a  lifetime  here.  Before  her  eyes  was  an 
endless  vista  of  mornings  spent  in  this  place  upon 
work  that  could  never  keep  her  thoughts  from 
paths  where  they  should  not  stray.  Alas  !  with 
Flammecoeur  she  had  neither  toiled  nor  spun. 
In  neither  face  nor  manner  did  Laure  betray 
any  suggestion  of  her  feeling ;  and  she  found 
herself  presently  seated  at  a  wheel,  between 
Alixe,  who  was  at  the  tapestry  frame,  and 
Lenore,  who  had  come  to  the  room  for  the 
first  time  in  many  weeks,  and  was  engaged  in 
fashioning  a  delicate  little  garment  of  white  sale. 
Madame,  at  the  head  of  the  room,  was  em 
broidering  a  square  of  linen  and  overseeing  the 
work  of  every  one  else  ;  and  she  glanced,  every 
now  and  then,  rather  searchingly  into  her 
daughter's  face,  finding  in  it,  however,  nothing 
that  could  cause  her  anxiety  ;  for  Laure  was 
ashamed  of  her  own  sensations,  and  strove 
bravely  to  conceal  them. 
[348] 


LENORE 

Possibly  this  scene  might  have  held  out 
promise  of  reward  to  the  thinker,  the  psycholo 
gist,  or  the  humanitarian.  Of  all  these  quiet, 
busy  women,  was  there  one  whose  dull,  pas 
sionless  exterior  did  not  cover  an  intricate 
and  tumultuous  heart-history  ?  The  rebellious 
thought-life  of  Alixe  was  no  less  interesting, 
despite  her  inactivity,  than  the  deadening  sor 
row  through  which  Lenore  had  passed.  Nor 
had  the  early  life  of  Eleanore,  with  its  doubt 
ful  joys  and  its  bitter  periods  of  loneliness,  left 
any  stronger  traces  in  her  face  than  had  the 
long  after-years  of  rigid  self-suppression.  She 
had  nearly  overcome  her  once  devastating  habit 
of  self-analysis,  by  forcing  herself  to  take  an 
unselfish  interest  in  those  around  her.  But 
the  marks  of  her  later  and  nobler  struggles  with 
grief  lay  as  plainly  in  her  face  as  those  of  her 
younger  life.  Only,  the  influence  of  her  youth, 
with  its  rebellions  and  its  solitudes,  was  to  be 
found  bodily  transferred  into  the  character  of 
Laure,  who  had,  in  her  infancy,  absorbed  her 
mother  into  herself.  These  four  women,  by 
reason  either  of  years  or  station,  had  experienced 
much  in  the  ways  of  joy  and  sorrow.  But  to 
what  depths  of  unhappiness  all  the  other 
[349] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

pathetically  colorless  lives  of  the  uninstructed 
and  unloved  women  of  that  day  had  sunk, 
cannot  be  surmised  by  any  one  who  has  seen 
what  strange  courses  loneliness  and  solitude 
will  take.  Who  knows  how  great  a  self- 
struggle  may  result  only  in  a  pallid,  vacant 
face  and  a  negative  personality  ?  And  what 
had  they,  all  these  neglected  women  of  the 
chivalric  age,  to  give  them  life,  color,  or 
force?  Men  did  battle  and  feats  of  arms, 
expecting  their  ladies  to  sit  at  home,  to  toil 
and  spin  and  bear  them  heirs,  and,  when  their 
time  came,  haply  die.  So  much  we  all  know. 
But  how  much  these  same  women,  having 
something  of  both  soul  and  brain,  may  have 
tried  to  use  them  in  their  small  way,  who  has 
cared  to  surmise  ? 

The  January  morning  wore  along,  and  by 
and  by  the  fitful  chatter  became  more  fitful : 
the  pauses  grew  longer ;  for  every  one  was 
weary  with  work,  and  with  the  incessant  noise 
of  loom  and  wheel.  Laure,  who  through  the 
morning  had  been  covertly  watching  Lenore 
at  her  task,  saw  that  the  young  woman  had 
grown  paler  than  was  her  wont,  and  that  the 
shadows  under  her  eyes  had  deepened  till  their 
[350] 


LENORE 

effect  against  her  pallor  was  startling.  Gradu 
ally  Lenore's  hands  moved  more  slowly.  She 
would  pause  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a 
slight  start,  return  to  her  work  with  so  con 
scious  an  effort  that  Laure  was  more  than  once 
on  the  point  of  crying  to  her  to  stop.  Pres 
ently,  however,  Lenore  herself  looked  toward 
madame's  chair  with  an  appeal  in  her  eyes 
and  a  faintly  murmured  word  on  her  lips. 

Eleanore  glanced  at  her,  and  then  rose  at 
once  and  went  over  to  her  side.  "  Why  didst 
thou  not  speak  sooner  ?  Go  quickly  to  thy 
room  and  lie  down.  Shall  I  send  Alixe  with 
thee  ? " 

"  Nay  !  Let  me  rather  be  alone !  "  And 
Lenore,  hastily  gathering  her  work  into  her 
arms,  slipped  from  her  place  and  was  gone 
from  the  room. 

The  little  scene  caused  no  comment.  Only 
Laure,  who  was  not  accustomed  to  the  sight 
of  Lenore's  transparent  skin  and  almost  start 
ling  frailty,  sat  thinking  about  her  after  she 
was  gone.  How  forlorn  must  be  her  poor 
existence!  If  she  had  greatly  loved  Gerault, — 
and  surely  any  maiden  would  have  loved  him, 
—  how  gray  her  world  must  have  become ! 
[351] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

how  without  hope  her  life  !  Laure  lost  her 
self  completely  in  a  revery  of  Lenore's  sorrows, 
and  forgot,  for  the  time,  how  weary  she  her 
self  was  :  how  her  foot  ached  with  treading  the 
wheel,  and  how  irritated  were  her  finger-tips 
with  the  long  unaccustomed  manipulation  of 
thread.  But  it  came  as  an  intense  relief  when 
she  heard  her  mother  say  softly, — 

"  Go  thou,  Laure,  to  thy  sister's  room. 
Make  her  comfortable,  if  thou  canst.  Take 
the  wheel  also  with  thee  and  finish  thy  skein 
there." 

"  Nay,  madame.  The  whirl  of  the  wheel  is 
distressing  to  Lenore;  I  saw  it  while  she  sat 
here.  I  will  finish  after  noon  if  thou  wilt, 
but  Lenore  must  not  be  disturbed." 

Madame  nodded  to  her,  and  Laure  slipped 
away,  not  noticing  how  Alixe's  eyes  followed 
her,  or  what  disappointment  was  written  in  her 
face.  For  hitherto  this  ministering  to  Lenore 
had  fallen  to  Alixe's  share,  and  it  had  been  the 
proudest  pleasure  of  her  life. 

Lenore   was   lying   upon    her   bed,   which, 

some  weeks  previously,  had  been  moved  over 

close  beside  the  windows  of  her  room,  that  she 

might  always  have  a  view  of  the  sea.     When 

[352] 


LENORE 

gg*^r-^p<yr«gr>'grr~^r>-^' 

Laure  entered,  she  scarcely  moved,  and  her 
great  eyes  continued  to  rove  round  the  room. 
The  new-comer  paused  in  the  doorway  and 
gazed  at  her  a  moment  or  two  before  she 
asked :  "  May  I  enter  ?  May  I  come  and 
sit  beside  you  ?  " 

Lenore  smiled  slightly ;  but  there  was  no 
actual  welcome  in  her  face  as  she  said,  in  her 
usual,  gentle  tone  :  "  Certes.  As  ever,  I  was 
idle  and  unthinking.  Come  thou  in,  Laure, 
and  sit  where  thou  canst  gaze  out  upon  the 
sea.  Look,  there  is  a  glint  of  sun  on  it,  even 
through  the  folds  of  the  clouds." 

Laure  looked  to  where  she  pointed,  and 
then  came  silently  over  and  seated  herself  in 
a  large  chair  that  stood  between  the  bed  and 
the  window,  in  a  little  jut  in  the  wall.  Her 
eyes  were  turned  not  to  the  many-paned  glass, 
however,  but  rather  upon  the  figure  of  Lenore, 
who  was  now  looking  off  through  a  half- 
opened  pane,  through  which  blew  fitful  gusts 
of  icy  wind.  The  two  young  women  re 
mained  here  in  silence  for  some  moments, 
each  in  her  own  position,  thinking  silently. 
Suddenly,  however,  Laure  shivered,  and  then 
sprang  to  her  feet,  saying :  "  Thou  'It  surely 
[M]  [  353  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

freeze  here  !  Let  me  cover  thee."  She  took 
up  a  thick  coverlet  that  lay  over  the  foot  of 
the  bed  and  placed  it,  folded  double,  upon 
Lenore's  form.  Then,  glancing  down  into 
the  milk-white  face,  she  said  again :  "  Let  me 
bring  thee  something — a  little  food  —  some 
wine.  Thou  'rt  so  pale  —  so  ill !  " 

"  Peace,  Laure  !  I  am  comfortable.  I  lie 
thus  for  hours  every  day.  Ah  !  for  how  many 
hours  in  the  past  months  — " 

She  looked  up  into  Laure's  face,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  two  women  met,  in  an  unfathom 
able  gaze.  Then  Laure  went  slowly  back  to 
her  place,  wishing  that  she  might  close  the 
window,  but  not  daring  to  interfere  with  her 
sister's  desired  sight  of  the  sea.  After  she 
had  sat  down,  Lenore  once  more  lost  herself 
in  a  reverie,  which,  however,  her  companion 
did  not  respect. 

"  Lenore,"  she  said  in  a  low,  rather  melan 
choly  voice,  "  how  is  it  that  thou  canst  en 
dure  this  life  of  thine,  —  thou,  young  and 
bright  and  gay  and  all  unused  to  this  dim 
dwelling ;  how  hath  such  existence  not  al 
ready  killed  thee  ?  Tell  me,  how  hast  thou 
fared  since  Gerault  went  ?  " 
[354] 


LENORE 

Lenore  turned  her  eyes  from  the  sea  and 
fixed  them  on  Laure's  face.  She  wondered  a 
little  why  she  did  not  resent  the  question,  not 
realizing  that  it  was  the  first  throb  of  natural 
understanding  that  had  come  to  her  out  of 
Le  Crepuscule.  Lenore's  first  impulse  of 
affection  toward  her  new  sister  had  altered  a 
little  in  the  past  two  weeks.  Since  she  had 
heard  and  understood  the  story  of  Laure's  last 
months,  the  white-souled  girl  had  shrunk  from 
contact  with  her  whose  career  lay  shrouded  in 
so  black  a  depth.  Yet  now  Laure's  tone,  as 
she  spoke,  and,  more  than  that,  the  expres 
sion  in  her  eyes,  touched  a  key  in  Lenore's 
nature  that  had  long  been  unsounded,  and 
which  brought  a  tremor  of  unwonted  feeling 
to  her  heart.  Quickly  repressing  the  impulse 
toward  tears,  she  gave  a  moment's  pause,  and 
then  answered  in  a  dreamy,  reflective  way,  as 
if  she  were  for  the  first  time  examining  the 
array  of  her  own  emotions, — 

"  Meseemeth  that,  since  the  day  of  Gerault's 
death,  a  part  of  me  hath  been  asleep.  Save 
when,  on  the  night  of  his  home-coming,  I  lay 
beside  his  body  and  touched  again  his  hair 
and  his  eyes  —  " 

[355] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  Holy  God  !  Thou  couldst  lie  beside  the 
dead  ! " 

"  Ah,  was  it  not  Gerault  come  home  to  me 
—  seeming  as  if  he  slept?  Since  that  time, 
and  the  night  that  followed  it,  I  say,  I  have  not 
wept  for  him.  Mine  eyes  are  dry.  There  is 
sometimes  a  fire  in  them  ;  but  the  tears  never 
come.  And  my  heart  ofttimes  burns,  and  yet 
I  do  not  very  bitterly  grieve.  I  know  not 
why,  but  my  sorrow  hath  not  been  all  that  I 
should  have  made  it.  I  have  been  soothed 
with  shadows.  I  have  found  great  comfort 
in  yon  rolling  sea.  And  then  there  is  also 
the  child,  —  Gerault's  son,  —  the  Lord  of 
Crepuscule." 

"Yes,  the  child!  Oh,  I  know  how  thou 
lovest  him  —  I  know  !  " 

"  Thou  knowest  ?     How  ?  " 

"  Methinks,  Lenore,  I  understand  the 
mother-love.  How  should  I  have  praised 
God  had  he  deemed  me  also  worthy  of  it ! 
But  I  was  not.  I  know  well  't  was  a  vain 
desire.  But,  oh,  to  hold  in  mine  arms  a  little 
one,  a  babe,  and  to  know  it  for  mine  own  ! 
Wouldst  not  deliver  up  thy  soul  for  that, 
Lenore  ?  " 

[356J 


LENORE 


Lenore  looked  at  her  with  a  vague  little 
smile.  "  Perhaps ;  I  do  not  know.  My 
babe  must  carry  on  his  father's  name,  and  so 
I  love  him.  Yea,  I  will  bear  any  suffering  so 
that  he  come  into  the  world  ;  for  Gerault  said 
to  me  long  since  that  such  must  be  my  duty 
and  my  great  joy.  He  spake  somewhat  as 
you  do.  Yet  I  know  not  that  eagerness  thou 
speakest  of." 

Laure  examined  the  ethereal  figure  lying 
before  her  with  new  curiosity  ;  and  under  the 
gaze  of  the  calm,  deep-hued  eyes  her  own  were 
kindled  with  a  brighter  gleam.  "  Hast  thou 
not  loved,  Lenore  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Knowest 
thou  nothing  of  the  joy  of  living,  the  two  in 
one,  united  by  divine  fire  ?  Dost  thou  not 
worship  God  for  the  reason  that  there  is  now 
in  thee  a  double  soul  ?  Wake  !  Wake  from 
thy  dream-life  !  Suffer !  For  out  of  suffer 
ing,  great  joy  will  come  upon  thee  !  " 

As  she  met  Laure's  look,  a  new  light  burned 
in  Lenore's  eyes,  and  the  other  saw  her  quiver 
under  those  words.  Finally,  freeing  her  gaze, 
she  said  very  softly  :  "  I  would  not  wake. 
How,  indeed,  should  I  live,  if  I  roused  my 
self?  Life  and  love  and  the  world  are  hidden 
[357] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


away  behind  the  far  hills  of  Rennes.  Here  I 
must  dwell  forever  in  the  twilight.  So  let  me 
dream !  Ah,  Laure,  thou  too,  thou  too  wilt 
come  to  it.  The  fever  may  burn  within  thee 
still,  but  time  will  cool  it.  Tell  me,  Laure," 
she  added,  smitten  with  a  sudden  curiosity 
that  was  foreign  to  her  usual  self,  "  tell  me, 
Laure,  how  didst  thou  find  courage  to  run  out 
from  thy  dreams  in  the  priory  into  life  with 
Flammecoeur,  the  trouvere  ?  " 

At  sound  of  the  name,  Laure  flushed  scarlet, 
and  then  turned  pale  again.  "  Flammecoeur ! 
Flammecceur !  "  she  murmured  to  herself. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  shook  the  spell  away. 
"  Ah,  how  did  I  fall  from  heaven  to  hell 
and  find  heaven  in  hell  ?  I  cannot  tell  thee 
more  than  thou  thyself  hast  said.  I  was 
buried  while  I  was  yet  alive  ;  and  so  I  arose 
from  mine  own  tomb  and  escaped  back  to  the 
world  of  living  things.  I  was  among  sleepers, 
yet  could  not  myself  sleep.  After  a  time  fire, 
not  blood,  began  to  run  in  my  veins.  And  so, 
in  the  end,  I  rode  away  with  the  Flaming- 
heart.  And  I  loved  him  !  how  I  loved  him  ! 
God  be  merciful  to  me !  Ah,  Lenore,  how  do 
they  put  us  poor,  long-haired  things  into  the 
[358] 


LENORE 


fair  world,  giving  us  hearts  and  brains  and 
souls,  and  thereon  bid  us  all  only  to  spin  — 
to  spin,  and  weave,  and  so,  perchance,  kiss, 
once,  and  then  go  back  to  spin  again  ? " 

Laure  was  half  hysterical,  but  wholly  in 
earnest,  —  so  much  in  earnest  that  she  had  for 
gotten  her  companion  ;  and  when  she  looked 
at  her  again,  she  found  Lenore  lying  back  on 
her  pillows,  her  breath  coming  more  rapidly 
than  usual,  but  her  face  rigidly  calm,  her  blue 
eyes  wandering  through  space,  and  Laure  per 
ceived  that  she  had  rejected  the  passionate 
words  and  kept  herself  still  in  the  dream  state. 

It  was  well  that  at  this  moment  there  came 
a  tap  at  the  door.  Laure  cried  entrance,  and 
as  Alixe  came  in  from  the  hall,  Madame 
Eleanore  appeared  from  the  other  door  that 
led  to  Laure's  room,  and  thence  through  to 
madame's  own  chamber.  Evidently  the  work 
hours  were  over,  and  it  was  time  for  the  noon 
meal. 

Lenore  did  not  care  to  descend  to  meat, 
and  she  asked  Alixe  to  bring  a  glass  of  wine 
and  water  and  a  manchet  of  bread  to  her 
room.  This  request  Alixe  joyfully  promised 
to  fulfil,  and  then  Laure  and  her  mother 
[359] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


together  left  the  room,  Laure  in  the  throes 
of  a  painful  reaction  from  strong  feeling,  and 
with  a  sense,  moreover,  that  Lenore  was  re 
lieved  to  have  her  go. 

In  this  last  conjecture,  or  rather,  sense, 
Laure  was  right.  But  it  was  not  through 
dislike  of  her  sister  that  Lenore  was  glad 
to  be  alone  again.  It  was  rather  because  the 
young  widow  had  been  powerfully  moved 
by  Laure's  words,  and  she  wanted  time  and 
solitude  to  readjust  herself  from  the  new  and 
disquieting  ideas  that  had  been  put  into  her 
mind.  Alixe  believed  her  to  be  fatigued,  and 
perhaps  suffering ;  and,  understanding  her  na 
ture  much  better  than  Laure  did,  she  brought 
the  invalid  everything  that  she  wanted  in  the 
way  of  food,  and  then  left  her,  believing  that 
she  could  sleep. 

It  was  afternoon  in  the  Castle.  Dinner  was 
at  an  end.  Madame  had  betaken  herself  to  her 
own  room,  for  prayer  and  meditation.  The 
damsels  were  all  scattered,  some  to  their  own 
small  rooms,  some  to  the  courtyard  and  the 
snow.  Laure  was  in  the  chapel,  before  the 
altar,  struggling  with  her  newly  roused  demon 
of  unrest.  In  the  long  room,  off  the  great 
[360] 


LENORE 

hall,  was  Courtoise,  seated  in  Gerault's  old 
place,  before  a  reading-desk,  with  an  illumi 
nated  parchment  before  him.  It  was  part  of 
"The  Romant  de  la  Rose,"  and  he  was  reading 
the  passage  descriptive  of  the  garden  of  Deduit. 
Although  nothing,  perhaps,  could  be  found 
in  the  literature  of  that  day  better  fitted  to 
appeal  to  a  dweller  of  Le  Crepuscule,  the 
mind  of  the  dark-browed  Courtoise  was  not 
very  securely  fixed  upon  his  book.  His  eyes 
rested  steadily  on  one  word ;  his  forehead  was 
puckered,  and  there  was  an  expression  on  his 
face  which,  had  he  been  a  maid,  would  likely 
have  portended  tears.  Courtoise  was  not  a 
man  to  weep ;  but  he  had  lately  fallen  reck 
lessly  into  the  habit  of  his  former  lord,  of 
coming  here  to  sit  with  a  parchment  before 
him,  as  an  excuse  for  brooding  hopelessly 
on  the  trouble  in  his  soul.  His  head  was 
now  so  far  bent  that  he  did  not  see  a  woman's 
figure  glide  into  the  room.  Not  till  she 
stood  over  his  very  desk  did  he  look  up  with 
a  little  start :  "  Thou,  Alixe  !  "  he  said  half 
impatiently. 

"  Yea,    Alixe,     Master    Courtoise.      Thine 
eyes,  it  seems,  can  make  out  great  shapes  very 
[  361  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

well,  but  halt  an  untold  time  over  one  curly 
letter." 

"  What  sayest  thou  ?  Thy  words,  Alixe, 
are  like  the  quips  of  the  dwarf;  but  thou 
hast  not  his  license  to  say  them." 

"  Ahime,  Courtoise,"  she  came  lazily  round 
the  table  till  she  stood  beside  his  chair,  "  seek 
to  quarrel  with  me  if  thou  wilt.  A  quarrel  would 
be  a  merry  thing  in  this  Castle.  For  I  am 
dull  —  dull  —  piteously  dull,  good  master!" 

Courtoise  looked  at  her  rather  grimly. 
"  Art  thou  dull  indeed,  Mistress  Alixe  ? 
What  thinkest  thou,  then,  of  all  of  us  ? " 

"Thou  also,  quiet  one?  Well,  I  had 
guessed  it.  Yet  methought  —  "  she  paused, 
with  mischief  in  her  eyes ;  and  Courtoise, 
who  knew  some  of  her  moods,  was  wise 
enough  not  to  let  her  finish  the  sentence. 
Rising  from  his  place,  he  went  and  got  a 
tabouret  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  and, 
placing  it  beside  the  chair  at  the  desk,  sat 
down  on  it,  motioning  Alixe  to  the  seat 
beside  him. 

Alixe  refused  the  offer.  "  Nay,  nay,  Master 
Courtoise.  Thou  shalt  sit  in  the  brawny  chair, 
for  thou  'rt  to  be  my  adviser.  Sit,  I  prithee, 
[362] 


LENORE 

and  let  me  take  the  little  place,  and  then  list 
to  me  carefully  while  I  do  talk  on  a  matter  of 
grave  importance." 

"  Name  of  Heaven !  Is  there  something 
of  importance  in  this  house  of  shadows  ?  " 

"There  is  Madame  Lenore,"  she  said 
soberly. 

"  Lenore  !  Ah,  't  is  of  her  thou  wouldst 
speak,"  he  cried,  his  whole  face  lighting. 

Suddenly  Alixe  broke  into  a  rippling 
mockery  of  laughter.  "  There,  Courtoise, 
thou  art  betrayed !  Nay,  I  will  be  still  about 
it,  for  I  also  love  her.  Now,  to  be  cruel,  my 
talk  is  not  to  be  of  her,  but  of  myself,  even 
me,  —  Alixe  No-name.  Thou,  Courtoise,  art 
in  something  the  same  position  in  Le  Cre- 
puscule  as  I,  save  that  thou  hast  a  binding 
tie  of  interest  here.  Then  canst  thou  not 
offer  me  a  moment's  thought,  a  moment's 
sympathy  ?  For,  in  very  truth,  I  need  them 
both." 

With  Alixe's  first  words,  Courtoise  had 
flushed  an  angry  scarlet ;  but  with  her  last,  his 
ordinary  color  came  back  to  him,  and  he 
looked  at  her  in  friendly  fashion  as  he  an 
swered  :  "  What  time  and  thought  I  have  are 
[363] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

thine,  Alixe.     But    thou    must  show  me  thy 
need  of  sympathy." 

"  Why,  let  it  be  just  for  dwelling  in  Le  Cre- 
puscule.  And  — if  thou  wouldst  have  more  — 
for  holding  no  certain  place  here.  There  was 
a  time,  after  Laure  had  gone  away,  and  when 
the  Seigneur  was  in  Rennes,  that  I  was  really 
wanted.  I  brought  comfort  to  madame,  and  I 
know  she  loved  me  well.  And  also,  since 
Madame  Lenore  was  widowed,  I  have  been 
sometimes  a  companion  to  her.  But  now  there 
are  two  daughters  here.  Madame's  life  is  full 
with  them  ;  and  my  place  in  Le  Crepuscule  is 
only  one  of  tolerance.  Therefore  —  lend  thine 
ear  closely,  Courtoise  —  I  would  go  away,  I, 
Alixe  No-name,  out  into  the  world,  to  see  if 
there  be  not  a  fortune  hidden  for  me  beyond 
the  eastern  hills.  I  would  go  to  Rennes,  or 
even  farther,  to  try  what  city  life  might  be ; 
yet  I  would  not  have  the  trouble  of  explana 
tion  and  protests  and  insistence,  and  finally  of 
farewell,  with  the  dwellers  here.  Rather,  I 
would  just  steal  away,  some  night,  nor  re 
turn  again  hither  evermore.  What  say  you, 
Courtoise  ?  Think  you  that  that  wish  is  all 
ingratitude  ? " 

[364] 


LENORE 

g?S^^^S^^^g^^^ 

It  was  some  moments  before  Courtoise  re 
plied.  His  face  was  a  little  turned  from  Alixe, 
but  she  could  see  that  his  brow  was  knit  in 
thought.  At  length  he  answered  her:  "Nay, 
Alixe,  thy  wish  is  not  ingratitude.  Rather,  in 
deed,  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  Madame 
Eleanore  showed  something  of  ingratitude  tow 
ard  thee ;  for  thou  wast  a  daughter  to  her  in 
her  sorrow ;  and  since  the  return  of  mademoi 
selle,  I  have  seen  thee  many  a  time  set  aside. 

"  If  thou  wouldst  fare  forth  into  the  world — 
well,  Alixe,  the  world  is  a  wide  place,  and  many 
dangers  lurk  therein.  Yet  thou  art  stout  of 
heart,  and  strong  enow  in  body,  and  methinks 
there  are  few  like  thee  that  would  of  choice 
dwell  in  such  a  place  as  this.  I  myself,  were 
it  only  not  for  —  Ah,  well,  if  thou  wouldst  go 
forth  and  make  thy  way  at  once  to  Rennes,  de 
part  not  now  in  the  winter  season.  Thou'dst 
freeze  on  thy  way.  Wait  till  the  spring  is  upon 
us,  and  the  woods  are  light  at  night.  And 
then  —  " 

"  Then  thou  'It  help  me  ?    Wilt  thou,  Cour 
toise  ?     Wilt    thou    tell   madame  when    I    am 
gone   wherefore    it  was    I   went  ?      Wilt    thou 
give  her  messages  of  faithful  love  ?    Wilt  —  " 
[365] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

"  Wait,  wait!  Ask  no  more  than  that,"  he 
said,  smiling  thoughtfully.  "  When  the  days 
are  warmer  and  the  spring  is  in  the  leaf,  when 
the  blood  flows  fast  through  the  veins,  and  the 
head  burns  with  new  life  —  "  he  drew  a  sudden, 
quick  breath,  and  Alixe,  looking  upon  him 
with  new  interest,  said  quickly  and  softly  : 

"  Then  come  thou,  also,  Courtoise,  out  into 
the  wide  world !  Let  us  together  go  forth  to 
seek  our  fortunes.  Thou  'It  find  me  not  too 
weak  a  comrade,  I  promise." 

Courtoise's  smile  vanished,  and  he  shook  his 
head,  a  look  of  sadness  stealing  into  his  eyes : 
"  Think  you,  Alixe,  that  after  the  death  of 
my  well-loved  lord  I  should  have  stayed  in 
this  Castle  to  grow  gray  and  mouldy  ere  my 
time,  had  it  not  held  for  me  a  trust  so  sacred 
that  I  could  not  give  it  up  ?  " 

"  Lenore,"  murmured  Alixe,  gently. 

"  Thou  knowest  it.  Since  the  first  day  that 
she  came  home  with  the  Seigneur,  I  knew  that 
here  she  would  sadly  need  a  friend  ;  and  in 
deed  she  hath  been  my  very  saint.  I  have  wor 
shipped  her  more  as  an  angel  than  as  a  woman, 
in  her  purity  ;  and  my  heart  hath  all  but  broken 
for  the  great  sadness  of  her  life  here.  And  if  by 
[366] 


LENORE 

Essssfisssas 

remaining  I  can  serve  her  in  any  way,  in  thought 
or  in  deed ;  if  it  giveth  her  comfort  to  have 
me  in  the  Castle,  I  would  sooner  cut  off  my 
hand  than  leave  her  here  alone.  I  feel  also 
that  my  lord  knoweth  that  I  am  faithful  to  the 
trust  he  left  with  me ;  and  I  would  not  forfeit 
his  dead  thanks.  Therefore,  Alixe,  ask  me 
not  to  return  into  the  world  with  thee  or  with 
another." 

While  he  spoke,  Alixe  had  watched  him 
fixedly,  and  had  seen  no  suspicion  either  in 
tone  or  in  face  of  a  deeper  feeling  for  Lenore 
than  he  had  confessed.  Now  she  sighed 
quietly,  and  said  in  a  gentle  voice  :  "  Courtoise, 
I  think  thou  shouldst  not  mourn  that  thou  'rt 
to  dwell  here ;  for  thou  hast  thy  trust,  and 
thou  hast  some  one  to  serve,  always.  There 
fore  fear  nothing,  and  give  thanks  to  God ; 
for  with  Lenore  in  thy  world  —  " 

"  Alas,  alas,  Alixe,  there  is  that  fear  in  me ! 
Should  Lenore  be  lost  —  should  Lenore  die 
-ah!" 

Low  as  was  his  voice,  the  agony  in  it  was 

unmistakable ;  and  now  Alixe  was  sure  of  all 

his  secret:  that  he  also  loved  Lenore  as  man 

sometimes  loves  woman,  —  purely.     And  she 

[367] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

could  find  no  words  to  say  to  him  when  the 
usually  self-contained  and  tranquil  man  laid  his 
head  down  on  the  table  before  him  and  did  not 
try  to  hide  his  grief. 

It  was  at  this  inopportune  moment  that 
Laure,  tired  of  prayers,  and  still  consumed  by 
her  restless  fever,  rushed  in  upon  the  two  in 
the  long  room.  Her  old-time  wild  gayety  was 
upon  her,  and  she  did  not  pause  before  the 
position  of  Courtoise,  who,  however,  quickly 
straightened  up.  Laure  scarcely  saw  it.  She 
knew  only  that  here  were  the  companions  of 
her  youth,  and  as  she  entered  she  cried  out  to 
them,  — 

"  Alixe  !  Courtoise  !  Up  and  out  with  me  ! 
Burn  ye  not  ?  Stifle  ye  not  in  this  dim  hole  ? 
Courtoise,  is  our  old  sailing-boat  still  in  its 
mooring  ?  Let  us  fare  forth,  all  three,  and  set 
out  upon  the  wintry  sea !  Let  us  feel  this 
January  wind  pull  and  strain  at  the  ropes  ! 
Let  us  watch  the  foamy  waves  pile  up  before 
and  behind  us  —  " 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  it  is  impossible.  The  boat 
lies  on  the  beach  ;  two  days'  work  would  not 
fit  her  for  the  water." 

[368] 


LENORE 

S352SS=SaS=SiS 

Laure  stamped  angrily  on  the  floor.  "  Some 
thing,  then,  something !  I  will  get  out  into 
the  cold,  into  the  snow  ;  I  will  move,  I  will 
feel,  I  will  breathe  again  !  " 

It  was  so  much  the  wild,  free  Laure,  it 
had  in  it  so  much  her  old-time  magnetism  of 
comradeship,  so  much  the  spirit  of  the  dead 
Gerault,  desirous  of  action,  that  Alixe  and 
Courtoise  were  drawn  irresistibly  into  her  mood. 
Both  of  them  moved  forward,  while  Alixe  cried 
gayly  :  "  The  hawks  !  Come,  we  will  ride  !  " 

"  The  hawks  !  "  echoed  Laure.  "  Run, 
Courtoise,  and  get  the  horses,  while  Alixe  and 
I  go  don  our  riding-garb  and  jess  the  birds !  " 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  rather  with 
a  throb  of  pleasure,  Courtoise  ran  obediently 
away  toward  the  stables,  while  the  young  women 
hurried  to  their  rooms.  In  twenty  minutes 
the  wild  trio  were  dashing  across  the  lowered 
drawbridge,  all  well  mounted,  hawk  on  wrist, 
spur  at  heel,  with  Laure  in  the  lead.  Down 
the  road  for  the  space  of  a  mile  they  went,  and 
then  struck  off  to  the  snowy  moor.  They 
rode  long  and  they  rode  hard,  finding  scarce 
a  single  quarry,  but  letting  their  pent-up  spirits 
out  in  this  free  and  healthful  exercise.  When 
[M]  [269] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

they  came  in  again  to  the  Castle  courtyard,  it 
was  in  starry  darkness  ;  and  not  one  of  the 
three  but  felt  a  new  strength  to  resist  the 
dead  life  of  the  Castle. 

Perhaps,  had  Courtoise  known  how  Lenore 
had  quietly  wept  away  the  afternoon  in  her 
solitude  and  loneliness,  he  had  not  appeared 
at  evening  meat  with  air  so  vigorous,  eye  so 
bright,  and  appetite  so  ready.  Lenore,  how 
ever,  was  never  known  to  make  a  plaint ; 
and  she  came  to  table  with  her  cheeks  hardly 
paler  than  usual,  though  her  downcast  eyes 
were  shrunken  with  tears,  and  their  lids  were 
tinged  with  feverish  red. 

Men  say  that  it  is  one  of  the  irrevocable 
blessings  that  Time  should  move  as  surely 
as  he  does.  But  when  the  hours,  nay,  the 
minutes,  lag  away  as  drearily  as  they  did  in 
Le  Crepuscule  that  winter,  one  feels  no  grati 
tude  to  Time  ;  but  rather  a  resentment  that  his 
immortality  should  be  so  dead-alive.  Yet  win 
ter  did  pass,  however  slowly.  In  March  the 
frozen  chains  of  the  prisoned  earth  were  riven. 
Streams  began  to  flow  fast  and  full.  The  snow 
melted  and  soaked  into  the  rich,  black  soil, 
making  it  ready  for  the  seed.  The  doors  of 
[370] 


LENORE 

rs!S=Sis^^•g^r>Fy^<=sa5^S's^sas^^ 

the  peasants'  huts  were  opened  to  the  sun  and 
rain.  Flocks  of  storks  began  to  fly  northward 
on  their  return  from  the  Nile  to  their  unsettled 
fatherland.  Spring  caught  the  earth  in  a  ten 
der  embrace;  and  wherever  her  warm  breath 
touched  the  soil,  a  flower  appeared,  to  mark 
the  kiss. 

To  Lenore  the  spring  warmth  was  as  heaven 
to  a  soul  newly  freed  from  earth-sorrow  and 
suffering.  Now  the  windows  of  her  room 
could  all  be  thrown  wide  open  to  the  outer 
air.  The  whole  sea  lay  before  her,  strewn  with 
sunlight,  and  frosted  with  white  foam.  She 
saw  the  fishing-fleet  from  St.  Nazaire  go  up 
past  the  bay,  on  its  way  to  the  herring  fish 
eries  ;  and  then  she  was  suddenly  inspired 
again  with  an  uncontrollable  desire  for  the 
sea.  That  afternoon  she  sent  one  of  her 
damsels  to  find  Courtoise.  He  came  to  her 
room  breathless,  and  eager  to  learn  her  will; 
and  to  him,  without  delay,  she  made  known 
her  imperative  wish  to  be  upon  the  sea. 

Courtoise  found  himself  in  a  dilemma.      He 

knew  that  there  was  a  boat  at  her  disposal,  for 

he  and  Laure  and  Alixe  had  now  been  sailing 

every  day  for  a  fortnight.     He  believed  Lenore 

[371] 


to  be  aware  of  this,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact 
she  was  not ;  nevertheless  he  at  first  refused 
her  request  point-blank.  After  that,  because 
she  wept,  he  temporized.  Finally,  in  despair, 
he  went  and  consulted  madame,  who  was  hor 
rified  at  the  idea.  Lenore  still  insisted,  appealed 
to  every  one  in  the  Castle,  from  Alixe  and  Laure 
to  the  very  scullions.  Finding  herself  repulsed 
on  every  hand  and  powerless  to  act  of  her  own 
accord,  she  became,  all  at  once,  utterly  irre 
sponsible,  and  made  a  scene  that  threatened 
to  end  everything  with  her.  Half  unbalanced 
by  months  of  illness  and  lonely  brooding,  and 
tortured  by  this  morbid  and  unreasonable 
fancy,  she  wept  and  screamed  and  raved,  and 
threw  herself  about  her  bed,  till  she  was  in 
a  state  of  complete  exhaustion,  and  every  one 
in  the  Castle  awaited  the  result  of  her  par 
oxysm  with  unconcealed  distress. 

After  this  time  she  did  not  leave  her  bed. 
She  was  very  weak,  and  she  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  ambition  and  all  desire  to  move  or  even 
to  speak.  Her  days  she  spent  in  silent  moodi- 
ness,  her  nights  in  tossing  feverishly  about  the 
bed.  She  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  the 
little  attentions  so  tenderly  showered  upon  her 
[372] 


LENORE 


by  every  one ;  except  that  she  was  pleased  to 
see  the  little  spring  flowers,  tender  pink  bells 
and  anemones,  that  David  and  Gourtoise  spent 
hours  in  gathering  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  on 
the  St.  Nazaire  road.  Upon  these  she  smiled, 
and  for  many  days  kept  a  bouquet  of  them  at 
her  side,  carrying  them  often  to  her  lips.  But 
after  a  little  while  she  grew  impatient  of  these 
simple  flowers,  and  began  to  plead  for  violets, 
which  no  one  in  the  world  could  find  in  Brit 
tany  before  May.  Courtoise  brooded  for  two 
days  over  his  inability  to  supply  her  want,  and 
every  one  condoled  her.  Indeed,  her  own  con 
dition  was  not  more  pathetic  than  that  of  the 
Castle  household  in  their  eagerness  for  her 
welfare  and  her  happiness,  and  for  the  welfare 
of  that  other  precious  soul  that  was  in  her 
keeping.  Madame  prayed  night  and  morning 
for  the  heir  of  Le  Crepuscule.  Laure  sewed 
for  him,  talked  of  him,  dreamed  of  him,  and 
bitterly  envied  Lenore.  And  now  there  was 
no  whisper  in  the  Castle  that  was  not  under 
stood  to  pertain  to  "  the  little  lord." 

At  last  there  came  an  April  twilight  when 
the  glow  of  the  sunset  was  growing  dim  be 
neath  the  lowering  veil  of  night.     Lenore  had 
[373] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

passed  an  unusually  quiet  day,  and  was  now 
lying  in  her  bed,  quite  still  and  tranquil. 
That  afternoon  David  had  been  admitted  to 
her  presence,  and  had  amused  her  with  tales 
from  the  fairy-lore  of  Brittany,  which  she 
dearly  loved.  Now  he  was  gone,  and  Madame 
Eleanore  sat  in  her  room  beside  the  bed. 
The  two  had  been  silent  for  some  time  when 
Lenore's  eyes  opened,  and  she  said  softly, — 

"  Madame,  hast  ever  thought  that  there 
might  be  a  daughter  of  Le  Crepuscule  ?  That 
is  what  I  believe." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  Eleanore,  invol 
untarily.  Then,  as  Lenore  turned  a  white, 
half-resentful  face  toward  her,  madame  went 
on  hurriedly  :  "  There  must  be  no  more 
daughters  of  this  house,  Lenore.  'Tis  what 
I  could  scarcely  bear,  —  to  see  another  maiden 
grow  up  in  this  endless  twilight  — "  Her 
voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  and  then,  for  a 
long  time,  the  women  were  still  together, 
thinking. 

A  tear  or  two  stole  from  Lenore's  eyes  and 

meandered  down  her  cheek  to  the  folds  of  her 

white  gown ;    but   her  weeping  was  noiseless. 

The  evening  darkened.     A  sweet,  rich  breath 

[374] 


LENORE 

ivrgjws^fn-gr-s'g 

of  spring  blew  softly  in  from  off  the  sea. 
Finally,  one  by  one,  the  jewels  of  night  be 
gan  to  gleam  out  from  the  sky.  Each  woman, 
unknown  to  the  other,  was  offering  up  a 
prayer.  And  it  was  in  the  midst  of  this  quiet 
scene  that  Lenore  started  suddenly  up,  know 
ing  that  her  agony  had  begun. 

No  one  in  Le  Crepuscule  slept  that  night. 
Laure  was  called  to  help  her  mother ;  and  the 
three  women  were  alone  in  the  bedroom  of 
dead  Gerault.  The  demoiselles,  all  dressed, 
had  assembled  in  the  spinning-room,  and  clus 
tered  there  in  the  torchlight,  whispering  nerv 
ously  together,  and  listening  with  strained  ears 
for  any  sounds  coming  from  Madame  Lenore's 
bedchamber.  In  the  hall  below  were  a  com 
pany  of  servants,  women  and  men,  and  a  half- 
dozen  henchmen,  who  quaffed  occasional  flagons 
of  beer,  but  spoke  not  a  word  through  the 
hours.  David  and  Alixe  sat  in  a  corner  play 
ing  at  chess  together ;  and  a  wondrous  game 
it  was,  for  neither  knew  when  the  other  was 
in  check,  nor  paid  attention  to  a  queen  in 
jeopardy.  Lastly,  Courtoise  was  there,  pac 
ing  up  and  down  the  hall,  his  hands  clenched 
behind  him,  and  the  beads  of  sweat  rolling  off 
[375] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

his  face.     And  how  many  miles  he  walked  that 
night,  he  never  knew. 

The  hours  passed  solemnly  away,  and  there 
was  no  sign  from  the  holy  room  above.  Time 
dragged  by,  slowly  and  yet  more  slowly,  till 
the  hours  became  as  years ;  and  it  seemed  that 
ages  had  gone  when  finally  the  dawn  came 
creeping  from  beyond  the  distant  hills,  and  a 
pale  light  glimmered  across  the  moving  waters. 
By  the  time  the  torches  were  flaring  high  in 
their  mingling  with  the  daybreak,  there  came, 
from  above,  the  sound  of  a  door  softly  opening 
and  then  closing  again.  In  the  hall  below,  no 
one  breathed.  Courtoise  paused  beside  a  table, 
and  trembled  and  shook  with  cold.  Alixe, 
very  pale  and  white,  moved  slowly  toward 
the  stairs.  There  was  a  faint  sound  of  rust 
ling  garments  across  the  stones  of  the  upper 
hall,  and  then,  descending  step  by  step  in  the 
wavering  light,  came  Laure,  great-eyed  and 
deathly  white,  after  the  night's  terrible  toil. 
She  came  alone,  carrying  nothing  in  her  arms ; 
and  on  the  fifth  step  from  the  floor  she  stopped 
still,  and  looked  down  upon  the  motionless 
company.  Once  she  tried  to  speak,  and  her 
throat  failed  her. 

[376] 


LENORE 

"  Mademoiselle  —  in  the  name  of  God  !  " 
pleaded  Courtoise,  hoarsely. 

Laure  trembled  a  little.  "  Good  friends,"  she 
said,  "  Madame  Lenore  is  safely  delivered;  and 
there  is  —  a  new  daughter  in  Le  Crepuscule." 


[377] 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

ELEANORS 


HEN  Laure,  her  message 
given,  started  back  upstairs 
again,  Alixe  was  at  her  side. 
At  Lenore's  door  they  both 
stopped,  till  madame  opened 
it.  Laure  entered  the  room 
at  once,  but  Eleanore  shook  her  head  at  the 
maiden,  and  bade  her  seek  her  rest.  Then 
Alixe,  disappointed,  but  too  weary  for  speech, 
followed  the  chattering  demoiselles  down  the 
corridor  where  were  all  their  rooms,  and,  say 
ing  not  a  word  to  one  of  them,  shut  herself 
into  her  own  chamber.  Once  there,  she  dis 
robed  with  speed,  but  when  she  had  crept 
into  her  bed  and  pulled  the  coverings  up 
above  her,  she  found  that  sleep  was  an  im 
possibility.  There  was  a  dull  weight  at  her 
heart,  which  for  the  moment  she  could  not 
[378] 


ELEANORE 


analyze.  It  was  as  if  some  great  misfortune 
had  befallen  her.  Yet  Lenore  lived  —  was 
remarkably  well.  And  the  child  —  ah,  the 
child  !  It  was  the  first,  almost,  that  Alixe 
had  thought  of  the  child.  A  girl,  another 
girl,  in  Le  Crepuscule  !  a  thing  of  inaction, 
of  resignation,  of  quiescence;  the  sport  of 
Fate ;  the  jest  of  the  age  !  Alas,  alas !  A 
girl !  To  grow  up  alone,  here  in  this  wilder 
ness,  companionless,  without  hope  of  escape  ! 
Thus,  dully,  inarticulately,  every  one  in  Le 
Crepuscule  was  meditating  with  Alixe,  till  at 
last,  one  by  one,  they  fell  asleep,  each  in  his 
late  bed. 

The  morning  was  far  spent,  and  an  April 
sun  streamed  brightly  across  her  coverlet, 
when  Alixe  finally  awoke.  Her  sleep  had 
done  her  good,  and  there  was  no  trace  of 
melancholy  in  her  air  as  she  rose  and  made 
herself  ready  for  the  day.  She  was  health 
fully  hungry,  but  there  was  another  interest, 
greater  than  hunger,  that  had  caused  her  so 
speedily  to  dress.  Hurrying  out  and  down 
the  hall,  she  stopped  at  the  door  to  Lenore's 
room,  and  tapped  there  softly. 

Laure  opened  it  at  once,  and  smiled  a  good- 
[379] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


morning  to  her.  "  Come  thou  in,"  she  whis 
pered.  "  Lenore  would  have  thee  see  the 
child." 

Alixe  entered  softly,  and  halted  near  the 
bed,  transfixed  by  the  sight  of  Lenore.  Never, 
even  in  the  early  days  of  her  bridal,  had 
Gerault's  lady  been  so  beautiful.  The  mys 
terious  spell  of  her  holy  estate  was  on  her, 
was  clearly  visible  in  her  brilliant  eyes,  in  the 
rosy  flush  of  her  cheeks,  in  the  coiling,  burn 
ing  gold  of  her  wondrous  hair,  in  the  smiling, 
gentle  languor  of  her  manner.  There  was 
something  newly  born  in  her,  some  still  ecstasy, 
that  had  come  to  her  together  with  the  tiny 
bundle  at  her  side. 

"  Come  thou,  Alixe,  and  look  at  her,"  she 
said,  in  a  weak  voice,  smiling  happily,  and 
casting  tender  love-looks  at  the  little  thing. 

Alixe  went  over,  and,  with  Laure's  aid, 
unwrapped  enough  of  the  small  creature  for 
her  to  see  its  tiny,  red  face  and  feeble,  flutter 
ing  hands.  As  she  gently  touched  one  of  the 
cheeks,  the  wide,  blue,  baby  eyes  stared  up 
at  her,  unwinking  in  their  new  wonder  at  the 
world  ;  while  Lenore  watched  them,  eagerly, 
hungrily.  Neither  she  nor  Alixe  noticed  that 
[380] 


ELEANORE 

Laure  had  moved  off  to  a  distance,  and  was 
staring  dully  out  of  a  window.  When  Alixe 
had  stood  for  some  moments  over  the  baby, 
wondering  in  her  heart  what  to  say  to  Lenore, 
the  mother  looked  up  at  her  with  those  newly 
unfathomable  eyes,  and  said  softly, — 

"  Put  her  into  my  arms,  Alixe." 

Alixe  did  so,  laying  the  infant  carefully  across 
the  mother's  breast.  Lenore's  arms  closed 
around  it,  and  her  eyes  fell  shut  while  a  smile 
of  unutterable  peace  lighted  up  her  gentle  face. 

Alixe  knew  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  go, 
and,  moved  as  she  had  never  been  moved  be 
fore  in  her  young  life,  she  started  toward  the 
door,  glancing  as  she  went  at  Laure,  who  fol 
lowed  her. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is  !  "  whispered  Alixe, 
as  they  stood  together  on  the  threshold. 

Laure  nodded,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  joy 
in  her  face.  "  Alas  for  them  both  !  "  she  said 
quietly.  "  There  have  been  enough  daughters 
in  Le  Crepuscule." 

To  this  Alixe  could  find  no  reply,  and  so, 

with  a  slight  nod,  she  left  the  room  and  went 

down  to  the  morning  meal.    Madame  Eleanore 

was  not  there.      After  the  strain  of  the  past 

[381] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


night,  she  had  gone  to  her  room  a  little  after 
sunrise,  leaving  Laure  to  care  for  the  young 
mother.  At  breakfast,  then,  Courtoise  and 
Alixe  sat  nearest  the  head  of  the  table,  but 
they  did  not  talk  together.  In  fact,  no  one 
said  very  much  during  the  course  of  the 
meal.  Instead  of  the  joyful  gayety  that  might 
have  been  expected,  now  that  their  dead  lord's 
lady  was  safely  through  her  trial,  a  dull  gloom 
seemed  to  overhang  everything,  to  weigh  every 
one  down :  Courtoise  ate  in  silence,  heavy- 
browed  and  brooding,  his  head  bent  far  over ; 
David,  in  no  humor  for  wit,  scarcely  spoke ; 
even  Alixe,  whose  heart  had  been  somewhat 
lightened  by  the  sight  of  Lenore  and  her  happi 
ness,  presently  succumbed  to  the  atmosphere, 
and  began  to  reflect  that  the  last  hope  of  the 
Castle  was  gone,  that  the  line  of  Crepuscule 
had  died  forever.  And  neither  she  nor  any 
one  else  paused  to  think  that,  if  the  little  Twi 
light  baby  asleep  upstairs  had  understood  the 
true  nature  of  her  welcome  into  the  world, 
she  might  readily  have  been  persuaded  to  es 
cape  again,  as  rapidly  as  possible,  into  her  blue 
ether,  where  pain  and  unwelcome  were  things 
unknown. 

[382] 


ELEANORE 


When  AHxe  had  eaten,  she  returned  to  the 
sick-room  and,  madame  being  still  asleep,  in 
sisted  upon  taking  Laure's  place  till  the  weary 
girl  had  eaten  and  slept.  Lenore  had  already 
taken  some  nourishment,  and  the  baby  had 
been  fed ;  and,  while  the  noon  sunshine  poured 
a  flood  of  gold  over  the  world,  the  mother  and 
child  drowsed  happily  together  in  their  bed. 

Alixe,  having  set  the  room  as  much  to  rights 
as  was  possible,  seated  herself  by  one  of  the 
open  windows,  and  straightway  began  to  dream. 
Her  thoughts  were  of  her  own  life,  of  the  new 
life  that  she  should  now  soon  enter  upon,  and 
of  what  would  befall  her  when  she  should  really 
reach  the  vast  world  that  lay  behind  the  barrier 
of  eastern  hills,  —  that  world  that  Laure  had 
found,  but  could  not  stay  in  ;  that  world  from 
which  Lenore  had  come,  and  whither  Gerault 
had  betaken  himself  to  die.  Alixe  mused  for 
a  long  time,  and,  in  her  untaught  way,  philoso 
phized  over  the  sad  stories  of  those  in  the  Cas 
tle,  and  the  prospect  of  a  real  history  that 
there  might  be  for  her  when  she  should  leave 
Le  Crepuscule  ;  and  it  was  in  the  midst  of 
this  reverie  that  the  door  from  Laure's  room 
opened  softly,  and  madame  came  in. 
[383] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

Near  the  threshold  she  paused,  looking  in 
tently  at  the  sleeping  mother  and  child,  so  that 
she  did  not  at  first  perceive  Alixe,  who  sat 
motionless,  transfixed  by  the  change  which, 
since  yesterday,  had  come  upon  madame.  If 
there  were  gloom  throughout  the  Castle,  be 
cause  of  a  disappointment  in  the  sex  of 
Lenore's  child,  that  gloom  was  epitomized 
in  the  face  of  Madame  Eleanore.  She  was 
paler  and  older  than  Alixe  had  ever  seen 
her  before.  The  white  in  her  hair  was  more 
marked  than  the  dark.  Every  line  in  her 
face  had  deepened.  Her  eyes,  tearless  as  they 
were,  seemed  somehow  faded,  and  her  manner 
bespoke  an  unutterable  weariness.  She  looked 
haggard  and  old  and  worn.  And  yet,  as  she 
gazed  at  the  unconscious  picture  of  youth  and 
tender  love,  the  joy  of  the  world,  and  the  life 
of  her  race  asleep  there  before  her,  her  face 
softened,  and  her  mouth  lost  a  little  of  its  hard 
ness. 

After  some  moments  of  this  gazing,  seeing 
that  still  she  had  not  moved,  Alixe  went  to  her. 

"  Laure  was  weary,  madame,  and  so  I  took 
her  place  while  Lenore  and  the  baby  slept," 
she  said. 

[384] 


ELEANORE 

Eleanore  nodded,  and  Alixe  wondered  un 
easily  if  she  should  leave  the  room.  After  a 
second  or  two,  however,  madame  shook  away 
her  preoccupation  and  turned  to  the  girl. 

"  Alixe,"  she  said,  "  none  hath  as  yet  been 
despatched  for  Monseigneur  de  St.  Nazaire  ; 
and  I  will  not  have  Anselm  baptize  the  child. 
Go  thou  and  tell  Courtoise  to  ride  and  fetch 
the  Bishop  as  soon  as  may  be,  to  perform  one 
last  ceremony  for  this  house.  Give  him  my 
good  greeting.  Tell  him  Lenore  is  well  — 
and  the  babe  —  a  girl.  Mon  Dieu  !  a  girl! 
—  Haste  thee,  Alixe.  And  thou  needst  not 
return.  I  will  sit  here  while  Lenore  sleeps." 

Alixe  bowed,  but  still  stood  hesitating, 
near  the  door,  till  madame  looked  up  at  her 
impatiently. 

"  When  I  have  given  Courtoise  his  message, 
let  me  bring  thee  food  and  wine,  madame. 
Thou  'It  be  ill,  an  thou  eat  not." 

"  Nay.  Begone,  Alixe  !  Bring  nothing  to 
me.  Why  should  I  eat?  Why  should  I 
eat,  when  after  me  there  will  be  none  of  mine 
to  eat  in  Crepuscule  ?  "  And  it  was  with  a 
kind  of  groan  that  madame  moved  slowly 
across  to  the  bedside.  When  Alixe  left  the 
[25  ]  [  385  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

room  she  was  still  standing  there,  gazing 
down  upon  Lenore,  who,  if  awake,  could 
hardly  have  borne  the  look  with  which 
madame  regarded  her. 

An  hour  later,  Courtoise  was  on  his  way 
to  St.  Nazaire;  but  he  did  not  return  with 
Monseigneur  till  evensong  of  the  next  day. 
Arrived  at  the  Castle,  the  Bishop  was  given 
chance  for  food  and  rest  after  his  ride,  before 
he  was  summoned  to  Lenore's  room,  where 
madame  received  him.  From  Courtoise,  on 
their  way,  St.  Nazaire  had  learned  of  the  dis 
appointment  of  the  Castle ;  so  that  he  was 
prepared  for  what  he  found.  He  read  Elea- 
nore's  mind  from  her  face,  and  was  not  sur 
prised  at  it,  but  from  his  own  manner  no  one 
could  have  told  that  he  felt  anything  but  the 
utmost  delight  with  the  whole  affair.  He  was 
full  of  congratulations  and  felicitations  of  every 
kind;  he  was  witty,  he  was  gay,  he  was  more 
talkative  than  any  one  had  ever  seen  him 
before ;  and  he  took  the  baby  and  handled  it, 
cried  to  it,  cooed  to  it,  with  the  air  of  an 
experienced  old  beldame.  Lenore,  still  radiant 
with  her  happiness  of  motherhood,  brightened 
yet  more  under  the  cheer  of  his  presence ; 
[386] 


ELEANORE 

and  in  her  unexpected  joy  the  Bishop  found 
some  consolation  for  the  cloud  of  misery  that 
shrouded  madame.  Indeed,  he  watched  Le- 
nore  with  unaffected  delight,  seeing  with  amaze 
ment  the  miracle  that  had  been  worked  in  her, 
and  "  knowing  her  now  for  the  first  time  as 
what  she  had  been  before  her  marriage,  when 
there  was,  in  her  nature,  none  of  the  melan 
choly,  the  morbidness,  the  pain  of  loneliness, 
that  had  for  so  long  clouded  her  life. 

Lenore  was  not  strong  enough  to  endure 
even  his  cheerful  presence  very  long ;  and 
when  Laure  presently  stole  in,  he  seized  the 
opportunity  that  he  had  been  waiting  for,  and, 
on  some  light  excuse,  drew  madame  with  him 
out  of  the  room. 

The  moment  that  they  were  alone  together, 
his  gay  manner  dropped  from  him  like  a  cloak, 
and  he  looked  upon  the  woman  before  him 
with  piercing  eyes. 

"  Eleanore,"  he  said  severely,  "  it  were  well 
an  thou  came  with  me  for  a  little  time  before 
God.  There  is  written  on  thy  face  the  tale 
of  that  oldtime  inward  rebellion  that  hath  been 
so  long  asleep  that  I  had  hoped  it  dead." 

Madame  looked  at  him  with  something  of 
[387] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

defiance,  displeasure  very  plainly  to  be  read  in 
her  brilliant  eyes.  "  My  lord,"  she  said  coldly, 
"  thou  'rt  wearied  with  thy  ride.  It  were  well 
an  thou  soughtest  rest." 

"  I  have  already  rested.  Where  wouldst 
thou  rather  be,  —  in  thine  own  room,  or  in  the 
chapel  ?  " 

"  Charles  ! "  madame  spoke  with  angry  im 
petuosity.  "  Think  you  I  am  to  be  treated 
as  a  child  ?  " 

"  There  are  times  when  all  of  us  are 
children,  Eleanore,  —  times  when  we  need  the 
Father-hand,  the  Father-guidance.  I  would 
not  be  harsh  with  thee  were  there  another  way ; 
nevertheless,  thou  must  do  my  bidding." 

She  led  him  in  silence  to  her  own  room, 
and  they  entered  it  together,  St.  Nazaire  clos 
ing  the  door  behind  him.  Madame  seated 
herself  at  once  in  a  broad  chair  near  a  window, 
and  the  Bishop  paced  up  and  down  before 
her.  The  room  was  warm,  for  the  night 
air  was  soft,  and  a  half-dead  fire  gleamed  upon 
the  stone  hearth.  A  torch  upon  the  wall  had 
been  lighted,  and  two  candles  burned  on  the 
table  near  by.  By  this  light  St.  Nazaire  could 
watch  Eleanore's  face  as  he  walked.  It  was 
[388] 


ELEANORE 


some  moments  before  he  spoke,  and  when 
he  began,  his  voice  had  changed  again,  and 
was  as  gentle  as  a  woman's, — 

"  This  birth  of  a  girl  child  hath  been  a  griev 
ous  disappointment  to  thee,  dear  friend  ?  " 

Eleanore  replied  only  by  a  look  ;  but  what 
words  could  have  expressed  half  so  much  ? 

"  Art  thou  angry  with  me,  Eleanore  !  Am 
I  to  blame  for  it  ?  Is  there  fault  in  any  one 
for  what  is  come  ?  Sex  is  no  matter  of  choice 
with  the  world.  Were  it  so,  methinks  thou 
hadst  not  now  been  grieving." 

"  Thou  sayest  truly,  it  is  no  matter  of  choice 
with  the  world.  But  hast  not  ever  taught  that 
there  is  One  who  may  choose  always  as  He 
will  ?  There  is  a  fault,  and  it  is  the  fault  of 
God  !  God  of  God,  Charles,  have  I  not  had 
enough  to  bear?  Could  I  not,  now  that  the 
end  cannot  be  far  away,  have  known  a  little 
content  in  mine  old  age  ?  What  hath  there 
been  for  me,  these  thirty  years,  save  sorrow? 
With  the  death  of  Gerault,  I  believed  that  the 
world  held  no  further  woe  for  me  ;  but  in  the 
following  months  hope,  which  I  had  thought 
forever  gone,  came  on  me  again,  combat  its 
cpming  as  I  would.  Yet  the  thought  that  an 
[389] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

heir  might  be  born  to  Crepuscule,  the  thought 
that  the  line  might  yet  be  carried  on  to  some 
thing  better  than  this  eternal  sadness,  came  to 
be  so  strong  with  me  that  I  gave  way,  fool 
that  I  was,  to  joy.  And  now,  by  the  merciless 
wrath  of  God,  Fate  makes  sport  of  me  again. 
God  alone  would  have  been  so  pitiless.  And 
am  I,  a  mortal,  to  forgive  the  Almighty  for  all 
the  woes  that  He  recklessly  putteth  on  me  ?  " 

In  this  speech  Eleanore's  low  voice  had 
risen  above  its  usual  pitch,  and  rang  out  in 
tones  of  deep-seated,  passionate  anger.  St. 
Nazaire  paused  in  his  walk  to  look  at  her  as 
she  spoke  ;  and  never  had  he  felt  himself  in  a 
more  difficult  position.  Sincere  as  was  his  be 
lief,  there  were,  indeed,  things  in  the  divine 
order  that  his  creed  could  not  explain  away. 
He  dreaded  to  take  the  only  orthodox  stand, 
—  resignation  and  continued  praise  of  the 
Lord,  for  in  Eleanore's  present  state  of  mind 
this  would  be  worse  than  mockery  ;  and  yet 
in  this  he  was  obliged  at  length  to  take  his 
refuge. 

"  Eleanore,  when  Laure,  the  infant,  was  first 
put  into  thy  arms,  wast  thou  grieved  that  she 
was  not  a  man  child  ? " 

[390] 


ELEANORE 

ESi^SSS^S 

«  I  had  Gerault  — " 

"  Hast  thou  not  loved  Laure  and  cared  for 
her  throughout  thy  life  because  she  was  thy 
child,  flesh  of  thy  flesh,  blood  of  thy  blood, 
conceived  of  great  love,  and  born  of  suffering  ? " 

"  Yea,  verily." 

"  And,  despite  her  months  of  grievous  wan 
dering  from  thy  sight,  still  hath  she  not  given 
thee  all  the  joy  that  Gerault  gave  ?  " 

"  More,  methinks  ;  in  that  she  hath  ever 
been  more  mine  own." 

"  Then,  Eleanore,"  and  there  was  joy  in  the 
man's  tone,  "  take  this  child  of  thy  son  to  thy 
heart  and  love  her.  Let  her  young  innocence 
bring  thee  peace.  Hold  her  close  to  thy  life, 
and  give  and  receive  comfort  through  thy  love. 
Seek  not  woe  because  she  is  not  what  she  can 
not  be.  Assume  not  a  knowledge  greater 
than  that  of  God.  Trouble  not  thyself  about 
the  future ;  but,  rather,  take  what  is  given 
thee,  and  know  that  it  is  good.  Shall  not  a 
young  voice  cause  these  walls  to  echo  again 
to  the  sound  of  laughter?  Will  not  a  child 
bring  light  into  thy  life  ?  Why  shouldst  thou 
grieve  because,  in  the  years  after  thy  death,  Le 
Crepuscule  may  fall  into  other  hands  than 
[391] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

those  of  thy  race?  Thinkest  thou  thou  wilt 
be  here  to  see  it  ?  For  sh'ame,  Eleanore ! 
Forget  thy  bitterness,  and  find  the  joy  that 
Gerault's  widow  already  knows  !  " 

Though  she  would  not  have  acknowledged 
it,  Eleanore  was  influenced  by  the  Bishop's 
words ;  and  the  change  in  her  was  already  visi 
ble  in  her  face.  Judging  wisely,  then,  St. 
Nazaire  let  his  plea  rest  where  it  was,  and 
blessing  her,  said  good-night  and  left  her  to 
sleep  or  to  pray  —  he  could  not  tell  which. 
And  in  truth  Eleanore  slept ;  but  in  her  sleep, 
love  and  pity  entered  into  her  heart.  She 
woke  in  the  early  dawn,  and,  hardly  thinking 
what  she  did,  stole  into  Lenore's  room,  creep 
ing  softly  to  the  bed  where  the  sleeping 
mother  and  infant  lay.  At  sight  of  them  a 
wave  of  feeling  overswept  her.  She  knew 
again  the  crowning  joy  of  woman's  life  :  she 
felt  again  the  glory  of  youth  ;  and  when  she 
returned  to  her  solitude,  it  was  to  weep  away 
the  greater  part  of  her  bitterness,  and  to  take 
into  her  inmost  heart  the  helpless  baby  of 
Gerault. 

On  the  following  morning,  in  the  presence 
of  an  imposing  company,  the  Lord  Bishop 


ELEANORE 

officiating,  the  little  girl  was  baptized.  Laure 
and  Courtoise  were  the  godparents ;  Laure 
feeling  that,  in  being  trusted  with  this  holy 
office,  she  stood  once  more  honorably  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world.  According  to  her  mother's 
wish,  the  babe  was  christened  Lenore, 
and  Alixe  guessed  wrong  when  she  thought 
the  little  one  called  after  another  of  that 
name.  When  the  ceremony  was  over,  and 
the  baptismal  feast  lay  ready  spread,  madame 
took  the  child  into  her  arms  to  carry  it  back 
to  the  mother ;  and  St.  Nazaire,  seeing  the 
kiss  that  she  pressed  upon  the  tiny  cheek, 
realized  that  the  cause  was  won. 

Madame  Eleanore's  lead  was  quickly  fol 
lowed  by  every  one  in  the  Castle  ;  and  the 
disappointment  at  the  baby's  sex  wore  away  so 
rapidly  that  in  a  month  probably  no  one 
would  have  admitted  that  there  had  ever  been 
any  chagrin  at  all.  Perhaps  no  royal  heir  had 
ever  known  more  abject  homage  than  was  paid 
to  that  wee,  bright-eyed,  grave-faced,  helpless 
creature,  who  was  perfectly  contented  only 
when  she  lay  in  her  mother's  arms. 

Lenore  regained  her  strength  slowly.  Her 
long  winter  of  idleness  and  grieving  had  ill- 
[393] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

fitted  her  to  bear  the  strain  of  what  she  had 
endured ;  and  it  was  many  weeks  before  she 
tried  to  leave  her  room.  Thus,  bit  by  bit,  the 
whole  life  of  the  Castle  came  to  gravitate 
around  her  chamber.  It  was  like  a  court  of 
which  the  young  mother  was  queen,  and 
where  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  all  the 
women-folk  of  Crepuscule  were  wont  to  con 
gregate.  It  was  on  an  afternoon  in  the  middle 
of  May,  when  summer  first  hovered  over  the 
land,  that  Lenore  was  dressed  for  the  first 
time.  She  sat  in  a  semi-reclining  position  by 
the  window,  whence  she  could  look  off  upon 
the  sea,  the  baby  at  her  side,  and  Alixe  the 
only  other  person  in  the  room.  For  nearly  an 
hour  Lenore  had  been  silent,  one  hand  gently 
caressing  the  baby's  little  cheek,  her  big  eyes 
wandering  along  the  far  horizon  line.  Alixe 
was  bent  over  a  parchment  manuscript,  which 
Anselm  had  taught  her  how  to  read,  and  she 
scarcely  raised  her  eyes  from  it  to  look  at  any 
thing  in  the  room.  Her  passage  had  become 
complicated,  and,  at  the  same  time,  interest 
ing,  when  Lenore's  voice  suddenly  broke  in 
upon  her,  — 

"Alixe,   'tis    long   time    now   since    I    saw 
[394] 


ELEANORE 


Courtoise.  Thinkest  thou  he  is  near  and 
would  come  and  talk  to  me  ?  " 

Alixe  let  her  poetry  go,  and  jumped  hastily 
up.  "  I  will  seek  him.  An  he  be  about  the 
Castle,  he  will  surely  come." 

Lenore  smiled  with  pleasure.  "  Thank  thee, 
maiden.  Let  him  come  now,  at  once." 

Alixe,  hugging  Courtoise's  secret  to  her 
heart,  hurriedly  left  the  room,  and  ran  down 
stairs,  straight  upon  Courtoise,  who  stood  in 
the  hall  below.  He  was  booted  and  spurred, 
and  his  horse  waited  for  him  in  the  doorway. 
Making  a  hasty  apology  to  Alixe,  he  was  going 
on,  when  she  cried  to  him  :  "  Courtoise,  stay  ! 
Madame  Lenore  seeks  thy  presence.  She 
would  have  thee  go  to  her  and  talk  with  her 
for  an  hour  this  afternoon.  Shall  I  tell  her 
thou  'rt  ridden  hawking  ?  " 

"  Holy  Mary  !  Say  that  —  say  that  I  come 
instantly.  She  hath  asked  for  me  ?  Hurry, 
Alixe  !  Say  that  I  come  at  once  !  " 

Courtoise  retreated  to  his  room,  trembling 
like  a  girl.  He  had  forgotten  his  horse,  which 
Alixe  considerately  caused  to  be  taken  back  to 
the  stable,  and  while  he  removed  his  spurs  and 
fussily  rearranged  his  dress  and  hair,  he  tried 
[395] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

g^g^'^^xs>g^r-q^-^5-^r«5g-g~<^-«r?g^^^  •*iT'--r-fi-S?S?S-S-'giS'SS8 

in  vain  to  recover  his  equanimity.  Then, 
when  he  could  no  longer  torture  himself  with 
delay,  he  hurried  away  to  the  door  of  her 
room  and  there  paused  again,  remembering 
how  many  times  since  her  illness  he  had  stood 
there,  both  by  night  and  by  day,  listening,  not 
always  vainly,  for  the  sound  of  her  voice,  or 
for  the  little  wailing  cry  of  the  hungry  babe. 
And  now  —  now  he  was  to  enter  that  sacred 
room,  holier  to  him  than  any  consecrated 
church  of  God.  Now  he  was  to  look  at  her, 
to  touch  her  hand,  to  feast  his  eyes  upon  her 
exquisite  face.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and 
was  about  to  tap  on  the  door,  when  it  sud 
denly  opened,  and  Alixe,  finding  herself  face 
to  face  with  him,  gave  a  little  exclamation, — 

"  Holy  saints  !  I  was  just  coming  to  seek 
thee  again.  Hadst  forgotten  that  madame 
waits  for  thee?  There  —  go  in!" 

Courtoise  never  noticed  the  mischief  of 
Alixe's  tone,  but  went  straight  into  the  room, 
and  saw  Lenore  sitting  by  the  window  with  the 
baby  on  her  lap.  She  turned  toward  him, 
smiling,  and  holding  out  her  hand.  He  went 
over,  looking  at  her  thirstily,  but  not  so  that 
she  could  read  what  was  in  his  heart.  Then 
[396] 


ELEANORE 

he   realized   vaguely   that  Alixe    had    left    the 
room,  and  that  he  was  alone  with  Lenore. 

"  'T  is  very  long,  Courtoise,  very  long,  since 
we  have  seen  each  other.  Why  hast  thou 
not  come  ere  now  ?  " 

"  Madame  !  Had  I  but  thought  thou  'dst 
have  had  me  !  Thrice  every  day  during  thy 
illness  came  I  to  thy  door  to  ask  after  thee 
and  the  babe  ;  and  since  then  — often  —  I  have 
stood  and  listened,  to  hear  if  thou  wast  speak 
ing  here  within.  But  I  did  not  know  —  " 

"  Enough,  Courtoise !  I  thank  thee. 
Thou  'rt  very  good.  Thou  knowest  thou  'rt 
all  that  I  have  left  of  Gerault,  and  I  would 
fain  have  thee  oftener  near  me.  Wilt  take  the 
babe?  Little  one!  She  feels  the  strength  of 
a  man's  arms  but  seldom.  Sit  there  yonder 
with  her.  So  !  " 

She    put    the   tiny   bundle    into    his   strong 
arms,  and  laughed  to  see  the  half-terrified  air 
with  which  the  young  fellow  bore  it  over  to 
the  settle  which   she  indicated.      But  when  he 
had  sat  down,  he   laid  the  baby  on  his  knees, 
and  then,  retaining  careful  hold  of  it,  turned 
his  whole  look  upon  Lenore. 
_  She  smiled  at  him,  supremely  unconscious 
[397] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

~fc~srvs~s~cTvr'''Tr<rr^ir<T'*r~g^";*?'>a^"g~<;^^ 

of  the  electric  thrills  that  were  making  the 
man's  whole  body  quiver  and  tremble  with 
emotion.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  difficult 
enough  to  read  his  feeling  in  his  matter-of-fact 
manner.  For  a  long  time  they  sat  there, 
talking  upon  many  subjects,  but  most  of  all 
about  Gerault,  whose  name  had  scarcely  crossed 
Lenore's  lips  since  the  time  of  his  death.  To 
Courtoise  it  was  an  acute  pain  to  hear  her  refer 
to  the  various  incidents  of  her  courtship  in 
Rennes ;  but  back  of  her  words  there  was  no 
suggestion  of  either  grief  or  bitterness.  She 
recalled  her  first  acquaintance  with  Gerault 
fully,  incident  by  incident,  and  caused  Cour 
toise  to  take  an  unwilling  part  in  the  reminis 
cences.  He  hoped  continually  to  get  her  away 
from  the  subject,  to  matters  now  nearer  both 
of  them;  but  time  sped  on,  and,  as  the  sun 
began  to  near  the  sea,  the  baby  woke  from 
sleep  with  a  little  cry  that  Courtoise  recognized 
with  a  pang.  His  hour  was  over ;  and  he 
had  gained  little  hope  from  it.  Yet,  as  he  re 
turned  the  baby  to  its  mother's  arms,  there 
was  a  smile  for  him  in  Lenore's  calm  eyes,  and 
he  retreated  with  a  beating  heart  as  Madame 
Eleanore  and  Laure  came  together  into  the 
[398] 


ELEANORE 


room,  to  spend  their  usual  evening  hour  with 
the  mother  and  child. 

This  hour  of  the  day,  the  twilight  time,  the 
time  of  yearning  for  things  long  gone,  had  of 
late  weeks  been  drawing  these  three  women 
of  the  Twilight  Castle  very  close  together. 
Laure,  Lenore,  and  Eleanore,  these  three,  with 
Alixe  ofttimes  a  shadow  in  the  background, 
were  accustomed  to  sit  together,  watching  the 
sunset  die  over  the  great  waters,  and  waiting 
for  the  appearance  of  the  evening  star  upon 
the  fading  glow.  And  in  this  time  of  silent 
companionship  each  felt  within  her  a  new 
growth,  a  new,  half-sorrowful  love  for  the  life 
in  this  lonely  habitation.  The  spell  of  solitude 
was  weaving  about  them  a  slow,  strong  bond, 
which  in  after  years  none  of  the  three  felt 
any  wish  to  break.  Many  dream-shadows,  the 
ghosts  of  forgotten  lives,  rose  up  for  each  out 
of  the  darkening  waste  of  the  sea;  and  with 
these  spirits  of  memory  or  imagination,  each 
one  was  making  a  life  as  real  and  as  strong 
as  the  lives  of  those  that  dwelt  out  in  the  great 
world,  for  which,  at  one  time  or  another,  all 
of  them  had  so  deeply  yearned.  Each  felt, 
in  her  heart,  that  her  active  life  was  over; 
[  399  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

and,  as  time  passed,  and  thoughts  began  ade 
quately  to  take  the  place  of  realities,  none  of 
them  cared  to  keep  alive  the  sharp  stings  of 
bitterness  or  of  unavailing  regret.  They  knew 
themselves  dead  to  the  great,  outer  life  that 
each,  in  her  way,  had  known.  Nor  did  they 
mourn  themselves.  What  fire  of  life  remained 
with  them  had  been  transformed  into  secret 
dreams  and  ambitions  for  the  future  of  that 
little  creature  swathed  so  carefully  from  the 
world,  now  lying  peacefully  asleep  upon  the 
mother-breast  of  Gerault's  widow. 


[  400  ] 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

THE   RISING  TIDE 

UMMER  was  on  the  world 
again,  and  with  its  coming, 
melancholy  was  banished  for 
a  season  from  Le  Crepuscule. 
With  the  first  northward  flight 
of  storks,  a  new  air,  a  breath 
of  hidden  life  and  gayety,  crept  into  the  Castle 
household,  and,  in  the  early  days  of  June, 
broke  forth  in  a  riot  of  pleasures,  —  caroles, 
garland-weaving  parties,  and  hunting.  As  in 
former  times,  Laure  was  now  the  moving 
spirit  in  every  sport,  and,  to  the  general  amaze 
ment,  madame,  who  in  her  younger  days  had 
been  celebrated  at  the  chase,  herself  headed  one 
of  the  rabbit-hunts,  —  in  that  day  a  favorite 
pastime  with  women. 

The  country  around   Le  Crepuscule  was  as 
beautiful  in  summer  as  it  was  desolate  in  win- 
[  26  ]  [  401  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


ter;  for  the  moorlands  were  one  gay  tangle 
of  many-colored  wild-flowers.  The  cultivated 
land  around  the  peasants'  homes  was  thick  with 
various  crops,  and  the  cool,  green  depths  of 
the  forest  hid  beauties  surpassing  all  those 
of  the  open  country.  The  stables  of  Le  Cre- 
puscule  were  well  supplied  with  horses,  for  the 
family,  both  women  and  men,  had  always  been 
persistent  riders.  In  these  June  days  the 
women-folk,  Madame  and  Laure  and  the 
demoiselles,  rode  early  and  late,  deserting 
wheel,  loom,  and  tambour-frame  to  revel  in 
a  much-needed  rest  and  change  of  occupation. 
Only  Lenore  refused  to  take  part  in  the 
sports,  finding  pleasure  enough  at  home  with 
the  child,  who  was  growing  to  be  a  fine  lusty 
infant,  with  a  smile  as  ready  as  if  she  had  been 
born  in  Rennes.  And  the  mother  and  child 
were  happy  enough  to  sit  all  day  in  the  flower- 
strewn  meadow,  between  the  north  wall  and 
the  dry  moat,  playing  together  with  bright 
posies,  watching  the  movements  of  the  birds 
in  the  open  falconry,  and  sometimes  taking 
part  in  quieter  revels  with  the  others.  Ere 
June  was  gone,  the  demoiselles  were  scarcely  to 
be  recognized  for  the  pale,  heavy-eyed,  pallid 
[402] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 

S^s^s^•^re^g^g>g^Ss^ss^s^g^<7?l^r^•^v-?i 

things  that  had  been  wont  to  assemble  in  the 
great  hall  after  supper  on  winter  evenings  to 
listen  to  the  stories  told  round  the  fire.  Now 
their  laughter  was  ever  ready,  their  feet  light 
for  the  dance,  their  cheeks  brown,  and  their 
eyes  bright  with  the  continual  riot  in  sunlight 
and  sea-winds.  Winter  lay  behind,  like  the 
shadow  of  an  ugly  dream,  and  now,  of  a  sudden, 
God's  world,  and  with  it  Le  Crepuscule,  became 
beautiful  for  man. 

In  the  first  week  of  July,  however,  the 
period  of  gayety  was  checked  by  the  loss  of 
four  members  of  the  household.  Two  of  the 
demoiselles  of  noble  family,  whom  madame 
had  taken  to  train  as  gentlewomen  of  rank, 
Berthe  de  Montfort  and  Isabelle  de  Joinville, 
had  now  been  in  Le  Crepuscule  the  customary 
time  for  the  acquirement  of  etiquette  and  the 
arts  of  needlework,  and  escorts  arrived  from 
their  homes  to  convoy  them  away.  After 
their  departure,  the  squires  Louis  of  Florence 
and  Robert  Meloc  resigned  their  places  and 
rode  out  into  the  world,  to  seek  a  life  of 
action. 

There  were  now  left  in  Le  Crepuscule  the 
demoiselles  whom  Lenore  had  brought  with 
[403] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


her  from  Rennes  a  year  ago,  and  two  others 
who  had  come  to  madame  many  years  ago, 
and  who  must  perforce  stay  on,  having  no 
other  home  than  this,  living  as  they  did  upon 
madame's  bounty.  And  there  were  also  two 
young  squires,  who  had  sworn  fealty  to  ma- 
dame,  but  hoped  some  day  to  ride  to  Rennes 
and  win  their  spurs  in  the  lists  of  their  Lord 
Duke.  For  the  present  they  were  content  to 
remain  out  on  the  lonely  coast,  where  Cour- 
toise  taught  them  the  articles  of  knight 
hood,  and  where  twenty  stout  henchmen  could 
look  up  to  them  as  superiors.  These,  with 
David  le  petit,  Anselm  the  steward,  Alixe, 
Courtoise,  and  a  young  peasant  woman,  who 
had  come  to  foster  the  infant  of  Madame 
Lenore,  comprised  the  attendants  of  the  three 
ladies  of  Crepuscule.  It  was  a  well-knit  little 
company,  and  one  so  accustomed  to  the  quiet 
life,  that  none  of  them  save  only  one  desired 
better  things. 

Of  the  mood  of  Alixe  during  these  summer 
months,  much  might  be  said.  Throughout 
the  spring  she  had  been  in  a  state  of  hot 
desire  for  what  was  not  in  Le  Crepuscule. 
She  was  filled  with  unrest ;  but  her  plans 
[404] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 

were  too  vague,  too  indefinite,  for  immediate 
action.  Strong  as  was  the  will  that  would 
have  carried  her  through  any  difficulty  that 
lay  not  in  the  condition  of  her  heart,  she 
was  still,  after  nearly  six  months  of  dreaming 
and  debating,  in  Le  Crepuscule.  Still  she  la 
bored  through  the  long,  dull  mornings ;  and 
still,  through  the  afternoons,  she  drifted  about 
through  moving  seas  of  doubt  and  yearning. 
She  longed  for  the  world,  but  she  could  not 
give  up  Le  Crepuscule,  and  those  whom  it 
held.  Here  was  her  problem,  —  which  way  to 
turn.  She  felt  that  another  such  winter  as 
she  had  just  passed  would  drive  her  senses 
from  her ;  but  she  knew  that  anywhere  out 
side  Le  Crepuscule  the  visions  of  three  faces, 
the  fair,  sad  faces  of  her  ladies,  would  haunt 
her  by  day  and  by  night  till  she  should  return 
to  them  at  last.  She  carried  her  struggle 
always  with  her,  and  at  length  it  drove  her  to 
seek  an  oldtime  solitude.  She  began  to  spend 
her  afternoons  in  a  cave  in  the  great  cliff  north 
of  that  on  which  the  Castle  stood.  This  cave 
had  been  formed  by  the  action  of  the  water, 
and  it  stretched  in  cavernous  darkness  far  into 
the  wall  of  rock,  —  much  farther  than  Alixe 
[405] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

had  ever  dared  to  go.  Near  the  entrance, 
four  or  five  feet  above  the  tide-washed  floor, 
was  a  little  ledge  where  she  was  accustomed  to 
sit  till  the  rising  water  drove  her  to  the  upper 
shore.  Tides,  in  Brittany,  are  proverbially 
high ;  and  at  full  tide  the  top  of  the  cave's 
opening  was  scarcely  visible  above  the  water ; 
so  it  behooved  Alixe  to  restrain  herself  from 
sleep  while  she  lay  therein,  meditating  on  her 
other  life. 

On  the  1 9th  of  July  the  tide  was  at  low  ebb 
at  half-past  two  in  the  afternoon  ;  and  at  three 
o'clock  Alixe  entered  the  cave,  and  climbed, 
dry-shod,  up  to  her  ledge  of  rock.  Here,  as 
she  knew,  she  was  safe  for  two  hours,  if  she 
chose  to  stay  so  long. 

The  interior  of  this  cave  was  by  no  means 
an  uninteresting  place,  though  Alixe  had  never 
yet  explored  it  beyond  the  space  of  twenty 
feet,  where  it  was  bright  with  the  daylight 
that  poured  in  through  its  jagged  entrance. 
After  that  it  wound  a  darker  way  into  the  cliff, 
and  the  far  recesses  were  lost  in  utter  black 
ness.  A  spoken  word  directed  toward  the 
inner  passage-way  would  reverberate  along 
that  mysterious  interior  till  one  could  not  but 
[406] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 

^^^V^TMnrS^Sas;S?S>grs?g?g>ivSi?<i?Si 

be  a.  little  awed  at  the  vast  extent  of  the 
lost  passage.  The  visible  floor  of  the  cavern 
was  a  thing  of  interest  and  beauty,  for  at  low 
tide  it  was  like  a  little  park,  where  pools  of 
clear  sea-water  alternated  with  groves  of  filmy 
plants,  small  ridges  of  pebbles  and  rocks,  and 
patches  of  delicately  ribbed  sand,  where  every 
species  of  shell-fish  dwelt.  At  times  Alixe 
spent  hours  in  studying  sea-life  in  these  places  ; 
and  certainly,  on  hot  summer  afternoons,  no 
pleasanter  occupation  could  have  been  found. 
Probably  others  than  Alixe  would  have  taken 
to  it,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  the  cave  was 
the  scene  of  one  of  the  weirdest  legends  of  the 
coast,  and  was  held  in  avoidance  as  much  by 
Castle  folk  as  by  the  peasantry.  Alixe,  how 
ever,  had  long  been  held  to  possess  some 
uncanny  power  over  the  people  of  the  super 
natural  world,  for  she  would  venture  fearlessly 
into  the  most  unholy  spots,  emerging  unharmed 
and  undisturbed  ;  nor  could  any  one  ever  learn 
from  her  whether  or  not  she  had  actually  held 
intercourse  with  the  creatures  whom  they  de 
voutly  believed  in,  and  so  devoutly  dreaded. 

To-day,  certainly,  there  was  no  suggestion 
of  the  uncanny  about  her  as  she  lay  upon  her 
[407] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

ledge  of  rock,  looking  off  upon  the  sparkling 
waters  that  danced  up  to  the  very  edge  of  her 
retreat.  With  one  hand  she  shaded  her  eyes 
from  the  golden  glare,  and  her  head  was  pil 
lowed  on  her  other  arm.  Her  usually  smooth 
brow  was  puckered  into  a  frown  for  which  the 
sun  was  not  responsible  ;  nor  yet  was  Alixe's 
mind  upon  any  subject  that  might  be  sup 
posed  to  anger  or  distress  her.  For  the  mo 
ment  she  had  dropped  her  inward  debate,  and 
was  lazily  watching  the  sea.  The  warmth  of 
the  afternoon  had  made  her  drowsy,  and  now 
the  shadowy  coolness  of  the  cave  soothed  her 
till  her  vivid  mental  images  had  become  a 
little  blurred,  and  the  sparkle  of  the  water  and 
its  crispy  rustle,  as  it  advanced  and  retreated 
over  the  sand  outside,  was  luring  her  mind 
into  the  faery  wastes  of  dreamland.  She 
wondered  a  little  whether  she  were  awake  or 
asleep ;  but,  in  point  of  fact,  her  eyes  were 
not  actually  shut,  when  a  slender  figure  came 
round  a  corner  of  the  entrance,  and  slipped 
lightly  into  the  cave. 

Alixe   started,  and  sat  up  straight,  while  a 
high  tenor   voice   cried   out:    "Ho,   Mistress 
Alixe,  'tis  thou,  then?     Is 't  I  that  discover 
[408] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 


thee  in  thy  retreat,  or  thou  that  hast  invaded 
mine  ?  " 

"  Ohe,  David,  thou'st  startled  me!  Me- 
seemeth  I  all  but  slept." 

"  'T  is  a  day  for  sleep,  but  this  is  not  the 
place.  Is  there  room  there  on  the  ledge  ?  Wilt 
let  me  up  ?  'T  is  wet  enough,  below  here." 

"Yea;  thy  feet  slop  i'  the  sand, and  thou'st 
frightened  two  crabs.  Canst  climb  hither  ?  " 

He  laughed  merrily,  and  scrambled  up  be 
side  her,  his  light  body  seeming  but  a  feather 
in  weight.  She  made  room  beside  her,  and  he 
sat  down  there,  cocking  one  particolored  knee 
upon  the  other,  and  beginning  lightly  :  "Thus 
bravely,  then,  thou  comest  into  the  cave  of  the 
water  goblin.  Art  thou,  perchance,  courted 
here  by  some  sly  water  sprite  ? " 

The  maiden,  responding  to  his  mood,  laughed 
also.  "  Not  unless  thou  'It  play  the  sprite, 
Master  David.  Say  —  wilt  court  me  ?  " 

"  Nay,  sister.  Thou  and  I,  and  all  i'  the 
Castle  up  above,  know  each  other  in  a  way  that 
admits  no  love-foolery.  Heigho ! "  The 
little  man's  tone  had  changed  to  one  of  whim 
sical  earnestness.  Alixe  made  no  immediate 
reply  to  his  speech,  and  so,  to  entertain  him- 
[  409  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

self,  he  took  from  his  open  bag  two  pebbles, 
and  began  to  toss  them  lightly  into  the  air, 
one  after  the  other. 

For  a  few  seconds  Alixe  watched  him  ab 
sently.  Then  she  said :  "  Those  pebbles, 
David,  are  like  thee  and  me.  Watch  now 
which  will  be  the  first  to  fall  from  thy  hand. 
Thou  'rt  the  mottled  ;  I  the  gray." 

"And  I,  damsel,"  said  he,  as  he  began  to 
handle  them  a  little  less  carelessly,  "  I,  who 
sit  here  forever,  for  my  amusement  tossing 
into  the  air  two  light  souls,  catching  them  when 
they  come  back  to  me,  and  flinging  them  again 
away  —  who  am  I,  I  ask?" 

"  Thou,  David  ? "  Alixe's  face  took  on  a 
little,  bitter  smile.  "  Why,  thou  art  that  in 
exorable  thing  that  men  call  God.  Wilt  never 
drop  thy  stones  from  their  wearisome  sphere, 
Almighty  One?  " 

"  They  will  not  fall.  They  return  to  me 
evermore,"  he  answered ;  and,  after  another 
toss  or  two,  he  let  them  both  remain  in  his 
hand  while  he  looked  at  them  for  a  moment. 
After  that  he  put  them  back  into  his  bag  again, 
with  a  curious  smile.  "  That,  then,  is  our 
end,"  he  remarked,  at  last. 
[410] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 


"Is  it  our  end?  David,  David!  Shall  I 
not  leave  Le  Crepuscule,  to  fare  forth  into  the 
world  ?  I  dream,  and  dream,  and  vow 
unto  myself  that  I  shall  surely  go ;  and  then 

—  I  still  remain." 

"  Ay.     There  are  things  that  keep  thee  here 

—  and  me  too.     There  is  the  baby,  now,  and 
its  angel-faced  mother.     And  then  madame  — 
how  is  one  to  leave  her,  when  she  is  a  little 
more  alive  than  formerly  ?     I,  too,  Alixe,  have 
dreamed  dreams.     The  fever  of  my  boyhood, 
with  its  wanderings,  its  life,  its  continual  change, 
comes  upon  me  strong  sometimes.     Here,  in 
this  place,  my  wit  lies  buried,  my  soul  grows 
gray  within  me,  my  eyes  have  forgot  the  look 
of  the  world's  bright  colors.     And  yet  I  stay 
on  —  I  stay  on  forever." 

"  How  if  we  two  went  out  together,  David, 
thou  and  I  ?  Think  you  the  world  might  hold 
a  place  for  us  ?  I  would  be  a  good  comrade, 
I  promise  thee.  I  would  march  stoutly  at  thy 
side,  nor  complain  when  weariness  overcame 
me.  We  should  not  have  always  to  beg  for 
food,  for  I  have  a  little  bag  —  " 

"  See,  Alixe,  look !  There  below,  on  the 
sand,  by  that  sharp-pointed  stone,  —  there  is 
[411] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 


a  gray-white  crab.  He  must  be  hurt.  See 
how  he  fumbles  and  struggles,  without  avail,  to 
reach  the  little  pool  ten  inches  from  him. 
Watch  him  ;  he  makes  no  progress.  Now  that 
were  thou  and  I,  thrown  upon  the  world.  Oh, 
this  place  is  full  of  omens  !  I  have  found  them 
here  before.  'Tis  the  witchery  of  the  cave." 

Alixe  failed  to  smile.  This  last  augury, 
though  it  confirmed  the  one  that  she  herself 
had  made,  did  not  please  her.  She  sat  silent 
on  the  ledge,  her  feet  hanging,  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  her  head  on  her  hand,  watching 
intently  all  the  little  dramas  taking  place  below 
her  among  the  sea-creatures.  Nor  was  David 
in  a  mood  to  make  conversation.  So  the  two 
of  them  sat  silent  for  a  long  time  —  how  long  a 
time  neither  of  them  knew.  The  water  was 
growing  more  brightly  golden  under  the  beams 
of  the  fast-descending  sun,  and  Alixe  noted  the 
fact,  but  held  her  peace.  It  was  David  who, 
after  a  little  while,  suddenly  exclaimed,  — 

"  Diable,  Alixe  !  See  how  the  tide  hath  risen  ! 
We  shall  be  wet  enough  getting  out  and  back 
to  the  upper  cliff.  Come  quickly  !  "  As  he 
spoke,  he  slid  from  the  ledge,  landing  in  water 
that  was  up  to  his  ankles.  "  Quickly,  Alixe  ! 
[412] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 

I  will  steady  thee.  Come,  thou  'It  but  be  the 
wetter  if  thou  stayest." 

Alixe  sat  motionless  upon  the  ledge  above, 
and  looked  calmly  down  upon  the  dwarf. 

"  Reflect,  David,  how  easy  it  were  not  to  wet 
my  ankles  thus.  How  easy  't  would  be  just 
to  sit  here  —  until  the  stone  should  drop  for 
the  last  time  into  the  hand  of  God." 

David  stood  looking  up  at  her,  wide-eyed. 
The  idea  was  slow  to  pierce  his  brain.  "  Why, 
yes,"  said  he,  "'twere  easy  enow,  easy  enow. 
Yet  when  I  go,  't  must  be  from  mine  own  room, 
and  by  a  clean  dagger-stroke.  I  care  not  to 
choke  myself  to  death  in  a  goblin's  cave.  Come, 
Alixe,  the  water  riseth." 

"  Go  thou  on,  David.  I  can  come  down 
when  I  will ;  for  I  have  traversed  the  way 
often." 

"  Come  down  !  " 

"  Nay,  David." 

"  Come  down." 

"  Nay." 

The  water  was  deeper  by  four  inches  than  it 

had  been  when  he  first  reached  the  bottom  of 

the  cave.     The  dwarf  looked  up  at   the  girl, 

who  sat  smiling  at  him,  and  his  face  reddened 

[413] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

slightly.  Then,  without  more  ado,  he  climbed 
back  upon  the  ledge,  and  sat  down  beside 
Alixe,  hanging  his  dripping  feet  toward  the 
water,  which  now  covered  the  tallest  of  the 
stones  on  the  floor  of  the  cave. 

"  David,  thou  must  go.  Climb  down,  and 
save  thyself  quickly.  Thy  slender  body  can 
not  much  longer  breast  the  tide." 

David  crossed  his  knees  and  clasped  his 
hands  around  them.  "  If  thou  stayest,  I  also 
will  remain/' 

"  I  beg  of  thee,  go,  ere  it  is  too  late  !  " 

"  Not  without  thee." 

"In  the  name  of  God  I  ask  it." 

"  We  two  were  together  in  God's  hand." 

"  Then  so  be  it,  David.  Sit  thou  here  be 
side  me.  We  will  wait  together." 

The  little  man  did  not  reply  to  her  this 
time,  and  Alixe  felt  no  more  need  for  speech. 
They  sat  there,  occupied  with  their  own 
thoughts,  both  watching,  under  the  spell  of  a 
peculiar  fascination,  how  the  green  water  was 
mounting,  mounting  toward  them.  The  cave 
was  filled  with  blinding  light  from  the  setting 
sun.  The  roar  of  the  ocean,  a  voice  mighty 
and  ineffable,  filled  all  their  consciousness. 
[414] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 

White-crested  breakers  rolled  in  and  broke 
below  them,  and  their  faces  were  wet  with  chill 
salt  spray.  The  water  in  the  cave  was  waist- 
deep. 

Alixe  was  growing  cold.  A  deadly  in 
toxication  stole  upon  her  senses,  and  she  bent 
far  over  the  ledge  to  look  into  the  swirling, 
foamy  green  below  her. 

"  By  the  Almighty  God,  His  creation  is 
wondrous  !  This  is  a  scene  worthy  of  the 
end  ! "  cried  David,  suddenly,  in  a  hoarse, 
emotional  tone. 

Alixe  started  violently.  The  sound  of  a 
human  voice,  breaking  in  upon  the  universal 
murmur  of  the  infinite  waters,  sent  a  sudden 
stab  to  her  heart.  In  a  quick  flash,  she  be 
held  Lenore's  baby  holding  out  its  feeble  hands 
to  her.  Near  it  stood  Laure,  the  penitent ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  madame,  with  her 
great,  grave,  sorrowful  eyes  fixed  full  upon 
herself,  Alixe. 

"  David  !  "  cried  the  girl,  suddenly,  wildly, 
above  the  roar  of  the  tide :  "  David !  We 
must  escape  ! —  Quickly  !  Quickly  !  Quickly  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  she  left  the  ledge,  to  find 
herself  swaying  almost  shoulder  deep  in  the 
[415] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

fierce,  swelling  water.  "  Come  !  "  she  cried, 
her  face  livid  with  her  new-born  terror. 

For  an  instant,  David  looked  down  upon 
her  with  something  resembling  a  smile.  Then 
he  followed  her,  and  would  have  been  carried 
off  his  feet  in  the  water,  had  not  Alixe  steadied 
him  with  one  hand,  while,  with  the  other,  she 
clung  to  the  rock  above  her  head.  The  sudden 
chill  woke  David's  senses,  and  he  said  sharply  : 
"  We  must  hurry,  Alixe  !  There  is  no  time 
to  lose." 

Then  the  two  of  them  began  their  work 
of  getting  out  of  the  cave.  David,  with  his 
small,  lithe  body  clad  in  tight-fitting  hosen 
and  jerkin,  started  to  swim  lightly  through 
the  water,  diving  headforemost  into  the  beat 
ing  breakers,  and  rounding  toward  the  shore 
with  rather  a  sense  of  pleasurable  skill  than 
anything  else.  But  with  Alixe,  the  case  was 
different.  Her  long  skirts  were  soaked  with 
water,  and  clung  disastrously  about  her  feet. 
The  idea  of  her  swimming  was  vain  ;  and  she 
grimly  gave  thanks  for  her  height.  But  she 
found  that  the  matter  of  walking  had  its 
dangers  too.  The  bottom  of  the  cave  and  the 
outer  stretch  that  lay  between  her  and  safety 
[416] 


J~  TAND  in  band,  by  the  murmur- 
JL  J.   ous  sea,  they  walked. — Page  42? 


THE    RISING    TIDE 


was  very  uneven.  She  stumbled  over  rocks 
and  sank  into  sudden  hollows,  continually 
hampered  by  her  clinging  skirts.  Presently 
she  fell,  and  a  great  breaker  came  tumbling 
over  her.  In  it  she  lost  her  self-control,  and 
was  presently  rolling  helpless  in  the  tide,  gasp 
ing  in  sea-water  with  every  terrified  breath,  and 
unable  to  get  her  limbs  free  from  their  bind 
ing,  clinging  robe.  Alixe  was  very  near  death 
in  earnest,  now,  and  she  knew  it.  Presently, 
where  a  sweeping  wave  left  her  head  for  a 
moment  above  water,  she  sent  one  hoarse, 
guttural  shriek  toward  David,  who  had  re 
gained  the  land;  and  he  turned,  horrified,  to 
look  at  her.  She  heard  his  cry  of  amazement 
and  distress,  and  then  she  was  rolled  upon  her 
face,  and  knew  nothing  more  till  she  found 
herself  lying  on  the  sand,  with  David  bending 
over  her,  whiter  than  death,  and  trembling  like 
a  woman. 

She  was  dizzy  and  weak  and  sick,  and  her 
lungs  ached  furiously ;  yet  with  it  all,  she 
saw  David's  distress,  and  managed  to  keep 
herself  conscious  by  staring  at  him  fixedly. 

"  Up,  Alixe  !  Up  !  "  he  muttered.  "Thou 
must  get  up  to  the  Castle.  I  cannot  carry  thee 

M  27  ]  [  417  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

there,  and  here  thou  'It  perish.  Up,  I  say  ! 
Here,  hold  to  my  belt.  See,  the  water  is  upon 
us  again." 

With  an  effort  that  seemed  to  her  to  be 
superhuman,  Alixe  struggled  to  her  feet. 
He  held  her  dripping  skirts  away  from  her, 
so  that  she  could  walk  as  little  hampered  as 
possible  ;  and  though  she  staggered  and  reeled 
at  every  step,  they  still  made  progress,  and 
were  halfway  up  the  cliff  before  she1  collapsed 
again,  utterly  exhausted.  Happily,  at  that 
moment,  David  spied  the  figure  of  Laure  at 
the  top  of  the  cliff,  and  he  cried  to  her  with 
all  the  strength  that  was  left  him  to  come 
down.  In  a  moment  she  was  beside  them, 
staring  in  silent  astonishment  at  their  plight. 

"  The  demoiselle  Alixe  had  a  fancy  for 
bathing.  She  hath  bathed,"  observed  David. 

Alixe  did  not  speak.  But  suddenly  her  eyes 
met  Laure's,  and  she  burst  into  hysterical  laugh 
ter.  Laure,  being  a  woman,  realized  that  she 
was  strained  to  the  point  of  collapse.  So  she 
bade  David  go  on  before  them  and  take  all 
precautions  to  recover  from  his  bath ;  and  then, 
as  soon  as  Alixe  signified  her  ability  to  go  on 
again,  Laure  put  one  of  her  strong,  young  arms 
[418] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 

S>S^v^gg;^7>i^g?g^gr>g>sr><^>fi7^>s^g^i 

about  the  dripping  body,  and,  sustaining  more 
than  half  her  weight,  succeeded  in  getting  her 
to  the  Castle.  Alixe  demurred  faintly  about 
going  in,  for  she  dreaded  questions.  But  it 
was  that  hour  of  the  day  when  the  open  rooms 
of  the  Castle  were  deserted,  when  all  the  world 
was  asleep  or  at  play,  and,  as  the  two  crossed 
the  courtyard  and  went  through  the  lower  hall, 
they  met  no  one  but  a  pair  of  henchmen  who 
were  too  respectful  of  Laure  to  voice  their  curi 
osity.  As  the  young  women  went  through  the 
upper  hall,  on  their  way  to  Alixe's  room,  there 
came,  from  behind  Lenore's  closed  door,  the 
gurgling  crow  of  the  baby.  At  this  sound 
Alixe  shuddered,  and  through  her  heart  shot 
a  pang  of  horrified  remorse  at  the  crime  she 
had  so  nearly  committed. 

A  few  moments  later  the  exhausted  girl  lay 
in  her  bed,  wrapped  round  with  blankets, 
her  dripping  garments  stripped  away,  and  her 
body  glowing  again  with  the  warmth  of  vigor 
ous  friction,  while  her  wet  hair  was  fastened 
high  on  her  head,  away  from  her  face.  When 
Laure  had  removed,  as  far  as  possible,  every 
evidence  of  the  escapade,  she  bent  for  a  moment 
over  the  pillow  of  her  foster-sister,  and  then 
[419] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

stole  quietly  away.  Alixe  made  no  sign  at  her 
departure.  She  lay  back  in  the  bed,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  face  set  like  marble,  her  mind  wan 
dering  vaguely  over  the  events  of  the  afternoon. 
Gradually  her  world  grew  full  of  misty,  creep 
ing  shadows,  and  she  was  on  the  borderland  of 
sleep,  when  some  one  again  bent  over  her,  and 
the  fragrant  breath  of  hot  wine  came  to  her 
nostrils.  With  an  effort  she  shook  her  eyes 
open,  to  find  Laure's  kindly  face  above  her, 
and  Laure's  hand  holding  out  to  her  a  silver 
cup. 

"  Drink,  Alixe.     'T  will  give  thee  strength." 
Obediently,  Alixe   drank ;    and   the    posset 
sent  a  new  glow  of  warmth  through  her  body. 
"  Now,  if  thou  canst,  thou  must  sleep." 
Alixe    sent    a    thoughtful    glance    into    her 
companion's  eyes,  and  there  was  something  in 
her  look  that  caused  Laure  to  take  both  of  the 
trembling  hands  in  her  own,  and  to  wait  for 
Alixe  to  speak. 

"  Nay,  Laure,  nay ;   I  cannot  sleep  till  I  have 

told  thee.     Some  one  I  must  tell,  —  some  one 

that  will  understand.     Let  me  confess  to  thee." 

Laure  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 

Alixe  still  retaining  her  hands.     And  Laure's 

[420] 


THE    RISING    TIDE 


sad  eyes  looked  down  upon  the  drawn  face  of 
her  foster-sister,  while  she  spoke.  "  Alixe," 
she  said  softly,  "  methinks  I  know  thy  confes 
sion.  Thou  hast  tried  to  leave  Le  Crepuscule. 
Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Alixe's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears.  "  It 
is  so.  I  tried  —  to  leave  Le  Crepuscule." 
The  last  she  only  whispered,  faintly. 

"  But  it  drew  thee  back  again  ?  The  Castle 
would  not  loose  its  hold  on  thee  ?  Even  so 
was  it  with  me.  Methought  I  hated  it,  Alixe, 
with  its  loneliness  and  its  shadows  and  its  vast 
silences.  Yet  however  far  away  I  was,  I  found 
it  always  before  my  eyes,  or  hidden  in  my 
thoughts.  Through  my  hours  of  highest  hap 
piness  I  yearned  for  it ;  and  it  drew  me  back 
to  it  at  last." 

"  It  is  true !  It  is  true  !  I  know  thou 
speakest  truth." 

"  And  thou  wilt  not  try  again  to  go  away, 
my  sister  ?  " 

"  Not  again ;  oh,  not  again  !  I  could  see 
you  all,  you  and  madame  and  Madame  Le- 
nore,  and  your  eyes  called  me  back.  It  is  my 
home,  is  't  not  ?  I  have  a  place  here,  have  I 
not  ?  Ah,  Laure,  thou  'st  been  so  good  to 
[421  ] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

«=SSSS3S3e=£=S=SS=S^SS=S^=£aS=ffi=^iS^=£^^i£^iE=S:^^ 

me  !  Shall  we  not,  thou  and  I,  go  back  again 
into  our  childhood,  and  dream  of  naught  better 
than  dwelling  here  forever  m  this  place  ?  Both 
of  us  have  sinned.  And  now  we  are  come 
home  into  the  shadow  of  the  Castle  of  Twi 
light,  for  forgiveness'  sake." 


[422] 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  VALLEY 


had  faith  enough  in 
David  to  believe  that  he  would 
keep  silent  about  the  affair  of 
that  afternoon,  and  her  confi 
dence  was  not  misplaced.  No 
one  save  Laure  knew  of  the 
caprice  and  the  projected  sin  that  had  led 
them  into  their  dangerous  plight.  And  to 
the  dwarf's  credit  be  it  said  that  he  never 
attached  any  blame  to  Alixe  for  their  adven 
ture.  Indeed,  thereafter,  his  manner  toward 
her  was  marked  by  unusual  consideration,  a 
little  veiled  interest  and  sympathy,  sprung 
from  a  knowledge  that  their  habits  of  mind 
had  led  them  both  in  the  same  ways  of  thought 
and  desire.  During  the  remainder  of  the  sum 
mer,  however,  neither  of  them  ventured  again 
into  the  Goblin's  Cave ;  and,  from  Alixe's 
[423] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

r^p^~g->gr~e^y?^-^^->«r-tr-gr-sg<^«r>«r^^ 

mind  at  least,  every  thought,  every  desire,  to 
leave  the  Castle,  had  been  washed  away.  Her 
dreams  of  another  life  were  dead.  And,  as 
the  golden  days  slipped  by,  the  thought  that 
Le  Crepuscule  must  be  her  home  forever,  came 
to  have  no  bitterness  in  it ;  for  she  had  learned 
in  a  strange  way  how  Le  Crepuscule  was  rooted 
into  her  heart,  and  how  impossible  it  would  be 
that  she  should  leave  it  till  the  great  Inevitable 
should  bid  her  say  farewell. 

Indeed,  the  Castle  had  set  its  seal  upon  every 
one  of  its  inmates.  The  little  household  had 
acquired  the  peculiar  characteristics  that  gener 
ally  grow  up  in  a  secluded  community.  Every 
dweller  in  the  Twilight  Land  was  unconsciously 
possessed  of  the  same  quiet  manner,  the  same 
air  of  tranquil  repose,  the  same  habit  of  ab 
stracted  thought.  And  these  things  had  stolen 
upon  them  so  unawares  that  none  was  con 
scious  of  it  in  any  other,  and  least  of  all  in 
herself.  It  was  a  singularly  beautiful  atmos 
phere  in  which  to  bring  up  a  little  being  fresh 
to  the  world.  In  this  place  a  new  soul  might 
have  dwelt  forever  untainted  by  any  mark  of 
worldliness,  of  passion,  or  of  sin ;  for  these 
things  were  foreign  to  the  whole  place.  No 


THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  VALLEY 

one  in  the  Castle  but  had,  at  some  time,  been 
through  the  depths  of  human  experience,  been 
swayed  by  the  most  powerful  emotions,  and 
known  the  passion  that  is  inherent  in  every 
mortal.  But  from  these  things  the  Twilight 
folk  had  been  purified  by  long  stretches  of  vain 
longing,  vain  struggles  in  the  midst  of  solitude, 
and  that  continued  repression  that  alone  can 
eradicate  mortal  tendencies  toward  sin.  And 
now  the  women  of  this  Castle  had  reached,  in 
their  progress,  the  neutral  vale  of  tranquillity 
that  lies  between  the  gorgeous  meadows  of 
delight  and  the  grim  crags  of  grief  and 
disappointment. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  Castle  that  did  not 
at  times  reflect  upon  these  things  ;  but  of  them 
all,  Eleanore  saw  most  clearly  whence  they  had 
all  come,  and  where  they  now  were.  Whither 
they  might  be  going  —  ah,  that !  that,  who 
should  say  ?  But  she  could  see  and  understand 
the  quiet  happiness  that  Lenore  had  reached 
through  her  child  ;  and  the  increasing  content 
ment,  that  was  more  than  resignation,  in  Laure. 
And  if  she  was  ignorant  of  the  route  by  which 
Courtoise,  Alixe,  and  David  had  come  into  the 
kingdom  of  tranquillity,  at  least  she  knew  that 
[425] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

all  had  reached  it,  and  was  glad  that  it  was  so. 
To  St.  Nazaire,  who  was  now  her  only  con 
nection  with  the  outer  world,  she  talked  of  all 
these  things,  and  found  in  him  not  quite  the 
spirit  of  her  Castle,  but  yet  a  great  understand 
ing  of  human  and  spiritual  matters. 

Summer  wove  out  its  web  over  the  Castle  by 
the  sea,  and  at  length  its  golden  heat  began  to 
give  way  before  the  attacks  of  chilly  nights  and 
shortening  days.  The  earth  grew  rich  and  red 
with  autumn.  Chestnut  fires  began  to  blaze 
upon  peasants'  hearths,  and  the  early  morning 
air  had  in  it  that  little  sting  that  brings  the 
blood  to  the  cheek  and  fire  to  the  eye.  It 
was  still  too  early  for  flights  of  storks  toward 
the  Nile,  and  the  year,  hovering  on  the  edge  of 
dissolution,  was  at  the  zenith  of  its  glory.  It 
was  the  time  when  the  smoke  from  the  forest 
fires  lingers  pungently  over  the  land  for  days 
on  end,  like  incense  proffered  to  the  beauty 
of  Mother  Earth.  It  was  the  time  when  the 
sun  rises  and  sets  in  a  veil  of  mist  that  tran 
scends  the  splendor  of  its  golden  gleams,  till, 
before  the  incomparable  richness  and  purity  of 
its  glory,  the  human  spectator  can  only  stand 
back,  aghast  and  trembling  with  awe.  In  fine, 
[426] 


THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  VALLEY 


it  was  that  time  when,  Nature  having  reached 
the  full  measure  of  her  maturity,  she  was  turn 
ing  to  look  back  upon  her  youth,  in  retrospect 
of  all  the  loveliness  that  had  been  hers,  before 
she  should  start  toward  the  darker,  colder, 
grayer  regions  that  lay  about  her  coming 
grave. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  such  an 
autumn  day  that  the  three  women  of  Le  Cre- 
puscule,  Laure,  Lenore,  and  Eleanore,  each 
lightly  wrapped  about  to  protect  her  from  the 
slight  chill  in  the  air,  went  out  of  the  Castle  to 
the  terrace  bordering  the  cliff,  for  their  evening 
walk.  In  the  hearts  of  all  three  lay  that  little 
wistful  sadness  that  was  part  of  the  time  of  year, 
and  in  their  surrounding  solitude  they  involun 
tarily  drew  close  each  to  the  other.  Yet  their 
faces  were  not  wholly  sad.  None  of  them 
wept  at  the  thought  of  the  long  winter  that 
was  again  upon  them.  Hand  in  hand,  by  the 
murmurous  sea,  they  walked,  looking  off  upon 
the  broad  plain  of  moving  waters,  each  un 
consciously  seeking  to  read  there  the  destiny 
of  her  remaining  years. 

The  hour  was  a  holy  one,  and  there  came 
no  sound  from  the  living  world  to  pierce  its 
[427] 


THE    CASTLE    OF    TWILIGHT 

stillness.  Nature  knelt  before  the  great  mar 
riage  of  the  sun  and  sea.  The  altar  of  the 
west  was  hung  with  golden  and  purple  tapes 
tries  ;  and  the  ministers  of  the  sky  poured  out 
a  libation  of  crimson-flowing  wine  before  the 
Lord  of  Heaven.  And  when  the  sacrifice 
was  made,  all  could  behold  how  the  great  sun 
slipped  gently  from  his  car  into  the  embrace 
of  the  sea,  and  the  two  of  them  were  presently 
hidden  underneath  the  golden  locks  and  shim 
mering  veil  of  the  beautiful  bride ;  and  there 
after  Twilight,  the  swift-footed  handmaid,  aided 
by  all  the  ocean  nymphs,  quickly  pulled  the 
broad  curtains  of  gray  and  crimson  across  the 
portals  of  the  bridal  room. 

The  sweet  dusk  deepened,  but  it  was  not 
yet  time  for  the  rising  of  the  moon.  There 
was  still  a  flush  of  red  in  the  west,  and  still  the 
breasts  of  the  gulls  that  veered  over  the  waters 
flashed  white  and  luminous  in  the  gathering 
gray.  The  silence  was  absolute,  save  for  the 
silken  swish  of  the  tide  rising  gently  along  the 
shore.  The  spell  of  twilight,  the  great  soul- 
twilight  of  the  middle  ages,  hung  heavy  on  the 
battlements  of  the  Castle  on  the  cliff.  On 
the  terrace  the  three  women  paused  in  their 
[  428] 


THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  VALLEY 

slow  walk.  Lenore,  her  white  face  uplifted, 
and  a  look  in  her  face  as  if  the  gates  of 
Heaven  had  opened  a  little  before  her  eyes, 
said  dreamily,  — 

"  How  sweet  it  is, —  and  how  beautiful, — 
our  home  !  " 

The  silence  of  the  others  throbbed  assent  to 
her  whispered  words. 

The  gulls  were  sinking  slowly  toward  their 
nests.  The  drawbridge  over  the  moat  was 
just  lifting  for  the  night.  A  lapwing  or  two 
floated  round  the  high  turrets  of  the  Castle ; 
and  from  the  doorway  there,  Alixe  was  coming 
forth,  bearing  Lenore's  baby  in  her  arms.  The 
stillness  grew  more  intense,  and  over  the  edge 
of  the  eastern  trees  slipped  the  round,  pink 
harvest  moon.  Then,  one  by  one,  a  few  great 
stars  came  sparkling  out  into  the  sky. 

"  See,"  murmured  Eleanore,  very  softly, 
"  the  east  is  clear  around  the  rising  moon." 

And  Laure  replied  to  her :  "  Yes,  very  clear. 
How  beautiful  will  be  the  morrow's  dawn  !  " 


THE    END 


MISS     POTTER'S     FIRST     SUCCESS 

U  ncanonize  d 

BY  MARGARET  HORTON  POTTER 

Autbor  of  "Me  Castle  of  twilight" 


H  STORY  of  English  monastic  life  in  the  thir 
teenth  century  during  the  momentous  reign 
of   King    John.       The    leading    character, 
Anthony   Fitz-Hubert,  is  a  brilliant   young  courtier, 
son  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  who  turns  monk 
to  insure  the  safety  of  his  father's  soul.     The  inter 
pretation  of  King   John's  character  and  acts  differs 
widely  from  the  traditional  view,  but  it  is  one  which 
investigation  is  now  beginning  to  present  with  con 
fidence. 

One  of  the  most  powerful  historical  romances  that  has  ever 
appeared  over  the  name  of  an  American  writer.  —  PHILADEL 
PHIA  INQUIRER. 

In  such  romances  we  shall  always  delight,  turning  to  them 
from  much  that  is  dull  and  inane  in  what  passes  for  the  realistic 
reflex  of  our  present-day  life.  — HARPER'S  MAGAZINE. 

It  is  a  noteworthy  book  of  its  very  attractive  kind.  —  THE 
INDEPENDENT. 

SIXTH     EDITION 
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UNIFORM  WITH    "THE  THRALL  OF  LEIF  THE  LUCKY" 

The  Ward  of  King  Canute 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  DANISH  CONQUEST 

BY     OTTILIE     A.    LILJENCRANTZ 


GHIS  book  is  for  those  who  are  weary  of  conven 
tional  romances  and  are  searching  for  a  story  that 
does  not  give  them  the  dusty  and  worn-out  historic 
trappings  with  which  they  are  over  familiar.     The 
story  of  Randalin,  the  beautiful  Danish  maiden  who  served 
King  Canute  disguised  as  a  page,  is  spontaneous  and  unhack 
neyed,  and  has  a  mediaeval  atmosphere  of  the  most  inspiring 
kind.       The  reader  forgets    his  practical  twentieth-century 
point  of  view,  and  loses  himself  in  the  glamour  of  these  brave 
old  days  of  the  Danish  conquest. 

It  is  a  romance  of  enthralling  interest.  .  .  .  Written  in  plain,  un 
adorned  Anglo-Saxon,  it  is  as  pure  and  wholesome  as  the  lovely  maiden 
whose  face  smiles  between  the  lines.  It  is  one  of  the  few  novels  that  can 
be  read  a  second  time  with  increased  enjoyment.  Than  this,  what  more 
can  be  said  ?  —  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE. 

Readers  of  "The  Thrall  of  Leif  the  Lucky"  can  understand  without 
description  the  pleasure  in  store  for  them  in  Miss  Liljencrantz's  latest  tale. 
The  volume  is  a  remarkable  example  of  bookmaking,  the  colored  illustra 
tions  showing  to  what  heights  the  art  of  book  illustration  may  attain.  — 
BOSTON  TRANSCRIPT. 

A  stalwart  and  beautiful  tale  —  a  fine,  big  thing,  full  of  men's  strength 
and  courage  and  a  girl's  devotion,  the  atmosphere  of  great  days  and  prim 
itive  human  passions.  —  PHILADELPHIA  LEDGER. 

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A      BOOK      OF       GREAT      BEAUTY 

"The  'Thrall  of  Leif  the  Lucky 

A  STORY  OF  VIKING  DAYS 

BY     OTTILIE     A.     LILJENCRANTZ 


REMARKABLE  book  because  it  not  only  tells 
an  unusual  and  fascinating  story,  with  a  novel  and 
seldom  used — and  therefore  interesting — historical 
background,  but  it  was  everywhere  declared  "  the 
most  beautiful  book  of  fiction  of  1902."  The  striking  ap 
pearance  of  the  volume  is  due  to  the  appropriate  character  of 
the  type,  initials,  end-papers,  etc.,  and  to  the  wonderful 
pictures  in  color.  It  is  the  story  of  Alwin,  the  son  of  an 
English  earl,  and  how  he  served  the  great  Leif  Ericsson  on  his 
famous  voyage  to  the  New  World,  and  how  he  finally  won 
his  freedom  and  the  beautiful  Helga  by  his  own  high  courage. 

Nearer  to  absolute  novelty  than  any  book  published  this  spring.  —  NEW 
YORK  WORLD. 

The  most  beautifully  illustrated  and  artistically  ornamented  romance  pub 
lished  this  year.  —  NEW  YORK  JOURNAL. 

A  tale  which  moves  among  stalwart  men,  and  in  the  palaces  of  leaders. 
—  NEW  YORK  MAIL  AND  EXPRESS. 

One  of  the  best  constructed  historical  romances  that  has  appeared  in 
America  in  some  years.  —  BROOKLYN  EAGLE. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  old  days  of  fighting  and  adventure  glows  in  the 
book.  — SPRINGFIELD  REPUBLICAN. 

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